


Through the Darkness

by kireteiru



Series: Variations on a Theme [2]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Boromir Lives, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27452494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: ...to the dawn.Or, Unbroken 2 Electric Boogaloo: The "BOROMIR LIVES" Remix.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Talion (Shadow of Mordor), Ioreth/Talion (Shadow of Mordor), Talion (Shadow of Mordor) & Orc(s)
Series: Variations on a Theme [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485791
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	Through the Darkness

It was Boromir who told them there was someone on the road behind him, someone who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere through the trees. Not too long after all the others had gathered to meet her, armed but with their weapons sheathed, she came on foot through the arch in the wall around the Last Homely House, carrying only a light and narrow but _long_ bag on a strap over her shoulder. “Welcome to Rivendell,” said Elrond, “With whom do we speak?”

“I am Idril,” she answered, bowing slightly at the waist to the Elf lord, “daughter of Castamir of House Rían, of Gondor.”

“The general in command of Minas Ithil before her fall?” Boromir asked, surprised.

“That is so. Some of us survived after the Witch-king claimed the city, and we retreated deeper into Mordor, to do what we could to harry Sauron’s forces,” she replied, “I have come to speak on their behalf, and also on behalf of all the Free Peoples of Mordor.”

Free Peoples of _Mordor_? “It sounds like you have quite the tale to tell,” said Elrond, “Enter, then, and be welcome.”

She bowed again to him, and said, “I also have a gift, of sorts, for any who desire it.”

When they brought her inside to a room with a long and wide table, she opened her bag, revealing a long tube of dark, lacquered wood that took up the majority of the space inside the main pocket of the bag. There was a cap on one end of the tube, which she removed, revealing rolls of parchment. She pulled one out, laid it on the table, and unrolled it.

There were gasps and murmurs even from the assembled Elves.

“A map of Middle-earth,” Gandalf murmured, bending over to examine it more closely, “but never before have I seen one so wide and clear.” Even the Dwarven cities in the Blue Mountains and Tol Morwen in the far west of Middle-earth were marked out with precision, and up into desolate Forodwaith in the far north, down into hot and humid Harad and Umbar and the barest edges of the Hither Lands in the far south, and many, _many_ miles east across Rhûn all the way to Orocarni, the Red Mountains.

“Look, Merry! It’s Michel Delving, and Hobbiton and Westmarch and Buckland - they’ve even got the Hedge marked out between us and the Old Forest!”

“Indeed,” said Idril, with a smile that softened her scarred face, even as she pulled out another one of the huge maps for more people to study, “Our cartographers have traveled far and wide across Middle-earth, though never before have we spoken to the residents of the Shire. Well met.”

Pippin beamed up at her, and introduced himself, Merry, Frodo, and Sam. Idril greeted them as well.

“This is a kingly gift,” said Aragorn, tracing the Harad Road where it passed through Southern Gondor and down into Harad and Umbar, “Have your people truly traveled so far as this?”

“Some of them,” Idril answered, “It is much indeed to explain all at once, but we have explorers who go out and do brief passes over the regions to say, ‘This area is desert’ and ‘Here there are mountains’ and ‘There is a city at the mouth of this river’. Then there are other cartographers who specialize in observing and measuring and drawing out these regions who go out and make more detailed maps piecemeal, and then they come back and we put everything together.” She tapped an area on the map. “We are waiting on some of the explorers to return to tell us what lies beyond the Red Mountains, though it remains to be seen if we will actually be able to send the others out to draw their maps.”

“You have seen that the Enemy is moving,” said Elrond.

“Oh yes,” she answered grimly, “It is worse than you know.”

“Then please, come and attend our council, that we might hear.”

* * *

Of all the people present, Idril was the only one of the mortal races who recoiled when Frodo presented the One Ring. She even pressed a hand to her heart and then flicked it away as if brushing dust off her clothes, a gesture to ward off evil, together with a murmur of “Avert.”

Her kinsman Boromir did not do the same. He rose and approached the pedestal where the Ring had been laid, saying, “In a dream, I saw the Eastern side grow dark, but in the West a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: ‘Your doom is near at hand. Isildur’s Bane is found.’”

Before he could touch it, Elrond said his name in sharp warning - and Gandalf rose and chanted the inscription on the Ring in Sauron’s Black Speech. _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them._ The sky went dark, and the others were sore afraid - but not Idril.

“Never before has any voice uttered the words of the tongue here in Imladris,” Elrond said sternly as Boromir retook his seat, considerably paler than before.

 **“** I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond,” said the wizard, “for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring is altogether evil.”

 **“** It is a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor!” Still, Boromir was insistent, and he rose again and paced, though notably with distance now between him and the pedestal. “Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!”

Idril made a derisive noise before the Ranger across from her could protest. “I have seen what even one of the lesser Nine has done to the greatest man I have yet known. There is no hope of _anyone_ using the _One_ against Sauron who made It - It will suffer no other master. Ones greater than either of us have already tried.”

She had brought her bag with her to the meeting, and now she reached back to one of the side pockets, pulling out-

Several of the Elves _inhaled_. “An _atamenne-enyalië_ ,” said Erestor, one of Elrond’s advisors, “A _memory sending_ , to travel between those minds that have never touched - or cannot. The art of making those was very nearly lost with the sinking of Beleriand at the end of the First Age, thousands of years ago. How then have you learned it?”

“There is one of the Eldar who survived such times now dwelling in Mordor, resisting Sauron directly,” said Idril, holding the fist-sized sphere of glowing, swirling mist carefully in her cupped hands, “He aided me in its making, though by his admission - and my own - it is _far_ from perfect. We have done our best, but we do not know how much will be lost in the sending.”

“And the reason for its size?”

“Context, and time,” she answered, “There is much indeed that has happened within the walls of Mordor that - so far as _we_ are aware - the West has no knowledge of. In addition, it will give much knowledge on the lay of the land to whomever takes the One to Its end.”

Gandalf rose to meet her. “I will open it,” he said, holding out his hand, “I can stabilize its power; hopefully that will lower our chances of losing those parts which are the most important.”

Idril handed it over, and the wizard tapped the end of his staff against it. Its glow brightened, it flashed-

_-and they were plunged into Idril’s memories. There was unavoidable transference, remembrances from her younger years, but they were brief, barely flickers in time, flashing away as fast as they had appeared. The memories slowed and lengthened when they came to the Siege of Minas Ithil and showed everything, how the Orcs had come upon the city without warning, hemming them in from all sides. How frantic messengers had been sent - with no reply from Minas Tirith. How all the soldiers had fought hard indeed, but still lost ground an inch at a time, finally falling back to the citadel with the rest of the city lost._

_Then the Ranger came. Talion, Captain of Gondor and last survivor of the Black Gate. He wasn't enough to turn the tide, but it was obvious from the Orcs’ reaction to him that he had a…_ reputation _._

_“The Uruks we captured last winter told stories of a Gravewalker, half Man, half Wraith - a demon.”_

_“And what do_ you _believe?”_

_“I believe we’d be lucky to have him.”_

_Talion had smiled with soft indulgence and ruffled her hair the way her own father hadn't done since she was knee-high._

_But then she caught him speaking to an Orc, and for a moment there was a horrible feeling of betrayal. Talion had done so much to save Minas Ithil, but he was working_ with _the Orcs?_

 _Then he_ introduced _them, of all things. “Idril, this is Torz; he’s one of the Orcs who follow me so they can spit in Sauron’s all-seeing Eye. Torz, Idril, daughter of Castamir, the leader of the human forces.”_

 _And the Orc had_ bowed _slightly to her. “Well met,” he had rumbled, “You should probably hear this too - there’s a traitor in your ranks.”_

 _“_ What _?!” She had stepped up next to Talion, eyes wide._

_“Who is it?” the Ranger had asked, “Do you know? Were you able to find out?”_

_Torz had just shaken his head, folded his arms. “Warchief’s playin’ it too close to the chest. Runners go out with messages and bring others back - and then he kills ‘em to keep the secret and gets another one for the next round, even if the turnaround’s just a few minutes. But they're all comin’ out of the fortress in Cirith Ungol; you wanna find out, that’s where to go.”_

_Talion had nodded and thanked him and sent him away._

_Despite her wariness around Talion - what kind of true-blooded Gondorian would work_ with _the Orcs unless they were a servant of Sauron? - it ended up being that_ Castamir _was the traitor, and he surrendered the city to the Witch-king to protect Idril - to no avail. **“She is free to die with her people.”**_

_He was killed and the city fell, but Idril herself wasn’t willing to give up the fight so easily - and neither was Baranor, her closest friend, and a number of other soldiers, including Talion. Though they went their separate ways, their paths often crossed, for the Ranger came frequently to aid them in freeing captured soldiers, killing captains, and otherwise causing trouble for Sauron’s armies._

_Yet all the while she heard rumors of an army of Orcs and Men and even dwarves and an Elf or two opposing Sauron, led by the Gravewalker. They swept through province after province, slaying or turning the enemy captains, sending even the Nazgûl fleeing before them, before marching on Barad-dûr itself._

_But what happened after wasn't clear. The attack on the Dark Tower was broken off, there was confusion and chaos - and then sudden silence. Stability returned to the Gravewalker’s army, but it was a cold and wary thing, only slowly warming back to the bright life it had been before._

_Something had changed._

_And then Minas Ithil - now Minas_ Morgul _\- had been taken back from the Witch-king, a feat Idril had thought impossible with the fell sorcery barricading the Tower. She had slipped away to scout…_

_The city had been still and silent as it had never been before, dark and cold and fell. Even the wild beasts - the snarling caragors, the roaring graugs, the ferocious fire-drakes - made no sound in the Morgul Vale. Every scuff of her boots over the rubble had sounded as loud as a landslide in the quiet, but she made it up to the Tower without being detained by any of the Orcs, friendly or not._

_The barrier had been drawn back, at least between the gatehouses, letting those who would come and go do so. Her eyes were immediately drawn to what remained of the once beautiful gardens overlooking the Morgulduin. They were now blackened and dead and withered, and there was a fire-drake there, curled up and resting at the feet of a dark figure standing at the edge of the path, the wind whipping at his cloak to reveal blackened armor that was changing right before her eyes, twisting from leather and mail embossed with the White Tree to tattered cloth and fell plate edged in corrupted gold._

_Even before she approached and he turned, she knew._

_But her feet carried her forward anyway, her eyes falling to the glowing (evil) Ring now (forced) on his hand before flicking back up. The drake spotted her and lifted its head, and he looked at it, then turned._

_Darkness crawled like a living thing under his skin, itself now corpse-pale. His hair looked black in the sickly green light - and perhaps now it was. And his_ eyes _\- no longer the cheerful sky blue that reminded her so much of her mother long lost. Now they glowed yellow-orange like the fire of Orodruin had been poured inside him._

 **_“Idril,”_ ** _said Talion, his voice metallic and hollow, **“You shouldn't be here. The city is held, but that doesn't mean it's safe.”**_

He resists, _she realized,_ His words - he wears the Ring but he’s fighting it. He is not lost - not yet.

_And almost before she knew what she was doing, she nearly flew to him and pulled him into a hug. Talion was distinctly shocked, and she felt him take a step back as if to break her hold and flee - but he didn't. He steadied himself and, after a long, hesitant moment, returned her embrace._

_Then, of course, because no one was allowed to have nice things in Mordor, the other Nazgûl attacked, plunging down out of the clouds in swirls of dark fog. Talion immediately broke their embrace and drew his sword, itself now just as dark and fell as his armor, and moved to defend, his drake rising to fight as well._

_And they kept fighting through the long years in Mordor, opposing the Dark Lord, whittling away at his forces, mapping the lands not just of Mordor but everywhere they could reach from drake-back, for he had a gift with the beasts like no other, greater even than his Ring-begotten power of Necromancy. (There they glimpsed one of the few times he was actually able to rest - rare to begin with, and they grew rarer still as the years went on. In every last one of those moments, his drakes always found him no matter where he was, and he ended up with baby drakes piled three and four high atop him while a number of_ viciously _protective adults stood watch and refused to let anyone near.)_

 _But every last one of them knew that the Ranger couldn't hold out forever, not even when the Elf-Blade Eltariel arrived to help - or returned, since Talion seemed to know her - along with an unknown Ñoldor Elf known as ‘Swinsere’ who came to lend them his sword. Talion was declining, but in truth much more slowly than she expected, to which he said, **“My late wife used to say that I had a head hard enough to break rocks and dent**_ **mithril _. Perhaps this is simply another facet of it.”_**

_But his stubbornness wasn't enough to hold off the darkness forever. It was a long, slow slide into shadow, a decay that inched up his arm from where the Ring sat on his finger, spreading through his body and withering his flesh down to a blackened skeleton under his armor. He had maybe a few more years left before he lost his hold completely, which they had been intently planning for; their few Elven smiths and spell-workers had created objects, great spheres of crystal set in strong towers around their lands, which absorbed the light of the Sun and Moon and Stars, especially the lingering light of the Two Trees from the Silmaril carried by Eärendil, and raised it as a barrier to protect against the Nine, so the cities they had built and entire swaths of land where they lived would be protected from the darkness as much as possible._

_But then earlier that very year, in what was either very late winter or very early spring, Sauron had stretched out his hand._

_Idril had been there when it happened. Talion had_ shrieked _in sudden agony and doubled over, then collapsed to the tough granite of Coldharbour’s streets, fiery red chains growing from his Ring and twining between his limbs, over his chest, around his throat. His mount, the fire-drake Daerwen, “The Dreadful Woman”, had screamed in distress of her own, and mantled her wings over him in an attempt to protect him until he pushed her back, gasping._

_At once, Idril, Eltariel, Swinsere, and Ghûra, the Overlord of Coldharbour, had been at his side. “Talion!” the human woman had cried, going to her knees next to her adoptive father._

**_“The One Ring has been found!”_ ** _he choked out, to sudden, ringing silence, **“Sauron - he has been**_ **amused _… with my defiance… but he wants his_ Nine _… to seek it out. I can’t…”_**

_“Ada,” she whispered, tears already gathering in the corners of her eyes._

**_“Evacuate Minas Morgul,”_ ** _he managed, **“and the fortress at Cirith Ungol. Get… everyone out. He intends to send his army through the Vale... the pass won’t hold. And the Ring... it**_ **must _be destroyed. It cannot be allowed to endure, and there is no hope of using it against Him... it has been tried before, and_ always _..._ _it returns to its Master.”_**

_Idril forced herself to take a deep breath. “We will see it done.”_

_He gripped one of her hands, the Ring glowing evilly on his finger. **“Speak to Shelob. She must have... seen something… and if you face me… do not hesitate. Because I won’t.”**_

_Her tears slid free, but she managed a nod._

_And then he was gone, dragged away to the Dark Tower in a cloud of black fog like all the other Ringwraiths, Daerwen following behind, loyal to the end._

The Council slid free of Idril’s memories, only to have Arwen rise from where she had been observing the meeting, pulling a tiny, flickering memory pearl of her own from her temple and offering it to Gandalf.

_“-five wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know.”_

_Strider lifted Frodo, gasping, shaking, wispy threads of darkness unfurling through his spirit unseen to mortal eyes, up onto her horse. “_ Stay with the Hobbits. I will send horses again for you _,” the Ranger said in Quenya._

 _“_ I’m the faster rider. I’ll take him. _”_

 _“_ The road is too dangerous. _”_

 _More than he knew. Even so, she said, “_ Frodo dies. If I can get across the river, the power of my people will protect him. _I do not fear them.”_

 _Frodo gasped again, a near shriek to echo the cries of the Ringwraiths around them, seeking him, and at last Strider relented. “_ According to your wish. _”_

_She swung up into the saddle behind the hobbit, and with one last farewell, they raced away, making for the Ford of Brunien. There were miles of forest between, but she was a horsewoman with centuries of experience and knew these lands like the back of her hand. Asfaloth wove between the trees, changing their course at the slightest touch of the reins or nudge of her knees._

_When she heard more thundering hoofbeats, glanced back for just the barest instant, the Ringwraiths were in pursuit - but she counted only eight, their Ring-corrupted souls as black as their cloaks in the Unseen World against the neutral land behind them. It was only a glance, so she couldn't be sure, but when Asfaloth pulled ahead again, she took another look._

_Still eight, their cold and fearful energy tugging at her heart. So where was the ninth-?_

_The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and by pure instinct she ducked, pressing herself and Frodo flat against Asfaloth’s neck and very nearly throwing them out of the saddle in the process._

_But then she felt it. The barest brush of a blade against the back of her neck._

_The ninth Nazgûl’s horse landed with a disproportionately heavy thud, stumbling only for a moment before regaining its footing, and he yanked the reins to wheel it around and resume pursuit, falling in with his brothers._

_She hadn't known it at the time, but it was Talion, his soul far from pure white like the Eldar but much less black than the other Ringwraiths, still bound by those flame-red chains now unseen to mortal eyes. Despite forcing him to bend to his will, Sauron’s control over him was less absolute than the others, which gave him room to maneuver, to_ think _, to hide the fell aura of the Nine and move unknown, unseen, in silence and shadow. He had guessed at her path and taken advantage of one of the woods’ rock spurs to lay a trap for her._

 _The others were fearsome, but this one was_ dangerous _._

_Yet even as he turned to follow with the others, he seemed to pause, and shook his head sharply, once, twice - but then the chains over his chest and around his throat tightened. He choked, his free hand scrabbling at the chains, Ring glowing sinisterly on his finger… and the light of his not-yet-lost soul receded slightly, Sauron taking control of him once more. His free hand returned to the reins, spurring his horse on, sword still bare in his other fist._

_Arwen reached the Ford before them and crossed almost to the other side, but the Nazgûl lingered on the far bank, clearly reluctant to enter the water. **“Give up the halfling, She-Elf!”** the Witch-king barked._

_She drew her sword and returned, “If you want him, come and claim him!”_

_At the Witch-king’s unheard, unseen command, the other Ringwraiths drew their swords as well, and all of them advanced into the water. Even though the other eight were, collectively, the greater threat, she kept her eyes on the ninth, so she saw when he paused again at her chanting, and whipped his head around to stare upriver as the waters started to rise. Then, at the last possible second, he wheeled his horse around and spurred it back up onto the bank, only_ just _missing being swept away with the others in the wall of water from the Brunien._

_When he stopped, he looked back at her, and seemed to visibly weigh his options. Then he slammed his sword back into its sheath - over his back, rather than at his side like the others - and spurred his horse the rest of the way up the riverbank and back into the trees, pounding hoofbeats fading into the distance. There was a shriek-_

-but not in the memory. Elrond slowly rose, eyes locked on something in the distance, and one and all, they followed his gaze.

There was a large and blood-red spot in the distance, flying stark against the blue sky and white clouds.

“Daerwen,” Idril said quietly.

It didn't take any great amount of imagination to imagine what - _who_ \- was on the ground far below her.

“He is following the line of the barrier that protects this valley.” Elrond let out a sigh, then looked to Arwen and said, “Not the strongest or swiftest or greatest of the Nine - in many ways not even close - but you are right to think he is still more dangerous than those that _are_. This… _independence_ of his, his lingering will, it gives him _teeth_ that the others do not have, enslaved completely as they are.”

“Not wise or learnéd like lords and kings, but Talion has abilities and experience of his own that make up for the lack.” Idril nodded in agreement, thinking of the armies of dead Men and Orcs who had been laid to rest... yet while they still lived, had promised to answer if he called for them. Then she looked back to Boromir. “The greatest man I have yet known,” she said, “He has spent so long fighting the Shadow, both without and within, but even if Sauron had not forced him to bend knee and obey, in time he too would have fallen into darkness. If he cannot resist even one of the _lesser_ Rings, what hope is there for any of us Men against the One Ring Itself?”

“Talion is right,” said Aragorn, “The Ring _must_ be destroyed. Only in this way can Sauron’s power be forever broken, and all of Middle-earth freed from his shadow. Gondor’s struggles have been many, and now by this they may at last be at peace.”

“And what would a mere Ranger know of such matters?!” Boromir nearly snapped.

One of the Elven contingent, Legolas Thranduillion, shot to his feet. “This is no mere Ranger,” he returned, “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

Boromir seemed shocked, but it wasn't until he spoke that Idril reacted the same. “ _Aragorn_? This… is Isildur’s heir?”

“And heir to the throne of Gondor,” Legolas added.

Only Elrond and Gandalf seemed to have known, because the others were equally surprised - including the hobbit who’d presented the Ring to the Council. The Man himself only murmured, “ _Havo dad_ , Legolas.” _Sit down._

The Elf returned to his seat, and so did Boromir. “Gondor has no king,” the Man said in an undertone, still clearly audible, “Gondor _needs_ no king.”

“Talion and Aragorn are right indeed,” said Gandalf, “We cannot use it.”

“You have only one choice,” said Elrond, “The Ring must be destroyed.”

“Then what are we waiting for?!” One of the dwarves bolted to his feet, taking up his axe, and lunged forward to bring it down on the Ring - but an instant later he was thrown back, axeblade shattered like glass.

The Ring Itself was utterly untouched.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess,” Elrond said, brushing one of the axe shards away from where it had landed in his lap, “The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this.”

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” said Boromir, rubbing his forehead like it pained him, “Its Black Gate is guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust; the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly!”

“That is only in Gorgoroth,” said Idril, “Núrn and some parts of Seregost are actually quite pleasant - and Lithlad, if you don’t mind the desert areas with all the sand. Unfortunately, Gorgoroth is exactly where the Ring must be taken.”

But from there the Council descended into heated argument, and she shot a poisonous look at the Ring - the source of the strife - before burying her face in her hands.

Until Frodo spoke up. “I will take it! _I will take it!_ ” Silence slowly descended as he continued, “I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though... I do not know the way.”

Gandalf stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, so long as it is yours to bear.”

Aragorn stepped forward as well. “If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.”

“And my bow,” Legolas added.

“And my axe,” Gimli finished.

Boromir nodded slowly, and looked to Frodo. “You carry the fates of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done.”

Another Hobbit - Sam Gamgee - emerged from hiding and planted himself at Frodo’s side. “Mr. Frodo is not goin’ anywhere without me!”

“No indeed,” Elrond said dryly, “It is hardly possible to separate you even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.”

“Wait! We’re coming too!”

Now it was Merry and Pippin’s turn. “You’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!” said the former as they ran over to join the other Hobbits.

“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission, quest… thing.”

“Well, that rules you out, Pip.”

“Nine companions… So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!” Elrond declared.

“ _Ten_ ,” Idril said, leaning back a little in her seat, “If you can give me a little time to return to Mordor, I can send Eltariel with you. I do not know how likely it will be that you'll meet them on the road, given all but one have been forced back to Barad-dûr, but she has experience combatting the Nazgûl - and corralling Talion when he’s being unruly. And, if you end up passing through Lothlórien, she can get you safe passage.”

Gandalf nodded with a faint smile. “We are grateful for any aid you can spare.”

“You have fire-drakes on the wing,” said Erestor from where he resumed his seat next to Elrond, “Can you not simply fly the Ring to Mordor?”

“Perhaps we could, ” she answered, “but that would mean abandoning even a pretense of stealth, which might be our only ally. It is always clear to the Eye where we are and who we are when we are in the air above Mordor, though what we are actually _doing_ is not always obvious - but on the ground, the Fellowship will be just a few more ants among many. In addition, the Ringwraiths have wingéd mounts of their own, and Sauron’s armies have ballistas that can shoot down our drakes if their riders are unwary.” Idril looked back to the Fellowship. “But we _can_ get you safely into Mordor - or at least Shelob can. I do not know the reason for her vendetta against Sauron, but she _hates_ him with a passion greater than any I have ever known. If you go to her tunnels in the Morgul Vale and tell her your purpose, there is not a doubt in my mind that she will see you safely through.”

* * *

Idril left the maps of Middle-earth with them all, and returned to Mordor on the back of a dusky grey fire-drake. A few days later, the Elf-Blade Eltariel arrived in Rivendell on a drake of her own, colored a soft gold - together with the Ñoldor Elf known as Swinsere, apparently at the Lord of Rivendell’s request.

Yet, much to many of their party’s surprise, Elrond greeted him with warmth as a kinsman, and called him _Ada_ \- Father - as Idril had Talion. It was only then that they learned that this Elf was in fact Maglor Feanorion, the Minstrel, and the last surviving son of the legendary Elven smith Fëanor. After throwing the Silmaril he had stolen into the depths of the sea, he had wandered long forsaken shores of Middle-earth, until the barest whisper of a rumor of an Elven Wraith seen in Mordor had drawn him in.

“Talion knew me the moment I stood before him,” Maglor said softly, “The Wraith that possessed him - it was Celebrimbor.”

Elrond and Gandalf both inhaled. “The Ringmaker,” Aragorn whispered, “He who forged the Elven Three.”

Maglor nodded. “My nephew. He never told Idril all that happened, but he told me a little more. Said that as Celebrimbor’s blood I had a right to know more of his fate. His seeming death was only that; when Sauron laid siege to Eregion, his true purpose was to capture Celebrimbor and bend him to his will. The making of the Three proved that although Sauron had been his teacher, Celebrimbor was more skilled in the forging of Rings of Power. Sauron sought to use him to perfect the One Ring, make it more potent than he could alone.

“Celebrimbor succeeded - but also slipped the net of Sauron’s control, and stole the One. Seeking revenge for the sack of Eregion, he seized control of entire armies of Orcs and led them against Sauron… but the One always seeks to return to its true Master. It abandoned him in the midst of battle, and he paid the ultimate price - Sauron tortured and killed his mother and sister right before his eyes, then he was beaten to death with his own forge hammer.”

“How then did he come to possess Talion as a Wraith? He should have entered the Halls of Mandos with his passing,” said Gandalf.

“Sauron bound him with blood and fell magic to Mordor’s soil,” the minstrel answered grimly, “to wander the long dark forever as punishment for his defiance. Yet after the War of the Last Alliance-” And here he nodded proudly in Elrond’s direction, earning a soft smile. “-when Sauron had regained some of his strength, he remembered Celebrimbor, and sought to use him to return himself to full power - even without the One Ring.”

“I take it that since we are not already under siege he did not succeed.”

“No indeed. The ritual his servants used to call Celebrimbor out of the dark worked - but not as intended. Talion was used as a sacrifice, but he was not quite dead when Celebrimbor emerged, letting him redirect to possess _Talion_ instead of Sauron’s servant. From there they went on a rampage through Mordor that their followers continue to this day.”

“We have seen what has become of Talion. What happened to Celebrimbor?”

“...His spirit is bound together with Sauron in the Great Eye atop Barad-dûr.”

“ _What?!_ How?!”

But Maglor only shook his head. “So far as I am aware, Talion is the only one who knows what happened, and he refuses to speak of it. All I know is that they laid siege to Barad-dûr itself… and something went wrong. Celebrimbor was lost, and Talion took up that Ring to continue the fight. But I do not think it will take much effort to guess near the mark of what happened.” He gave his adopted son a grim, mirthless smile. “ _To evil end shall all things turn that we begin well._ ”

(Only Aragorn noticed Eltariel shifting guiltily in a corner, but he said nothing.)

“But he _repudiated_ your deeds! And those of his father and other uncles as well!” Elrond protested, eyes flashing, looking very near to slamming his hands down on the table, “He never had anything to do with _any_ of the Kinslayings!”

“We don't know if that really means anything. Whatever else may be true, he is still a member of the House of Fëanor, and the Doom of Mandos was laid on _all of us_ and all who _followed_ us without distinguishing the innocent from the guilty. It is for that reason that I have only barely been involved in Mordor, for fear of upending Talion’s efforts with the Doom that hangs over me.” 

“ _Aya_.” The Elf lord buried his head in his hands.

“When I told Talion about the Doom, he cursed all the Valar out, and quite creatively, too,” Maglor added, “Such a _mouth_ on that boy - you’d think he was one of the Corsairs of Umbar.”

“...I will see what can be done on that front,” Gandalf said at last, “I have little knowledge of the Doom, but I will send a message to Valinor, to ask for clarification, and to see if the sentence on the two of you might at least be lessened. I cannot say what the Valar will say in answer, but for my part I believe you have been punished enough through these long years, and Celebrimbor never should have been punished at all.”

* * *

Maglor returned to Mordor soon after, on the back of Eltariel’s drake Ammalië, but the Elf-Blade herself joined the Fellowship when they departed from Rivendell, though she spent much of her time scouting the route ahead to ensure it was safe.

She also brought with her something of Mordor - a much smaller version of the strange magical devices that protected their cities from the Nine, small enough to be carried easily in her pack. The Elf-Blade set them up at night, though only once everyone had bedded down for the night. “This is a lesser barrier than the ones we use in Mordor. It cannot be passed through like those,” she told them, “It will protect us well enough from the Nine, but you must _not_ break it.”

Even Pippin - arguably the most careless of the Fellowship - was mindful to avoid going even within arm’s reach of the barrier, which proved to be a good thing indeed a few weeks out from Rivendell.

One and all, the entire Fellowship woke in the night, though they couldn't immediately say exactly what had woken them - not until Gimli started to grumble, and Eltariel uttered a low but fierce “ _Quiet._ ”

The dwarf turned as if to heap invective on her - then stopped, and slowly followed her gaze.

Talion was slowly pacing the edge of the barrier, stopping intermittently to scent the air and let out a drake-like hissing growl. The jewel of his Ring glowed blood red in the dark, and Daerwen’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight where she was settling in under a nearby tree, his horse right next to her. It was her landing that had woken them, for Talion was being _very_ quiet indeed; even his hissing was only just louder than the rustle of wind through the trees, and he displayed nothing of the Ringwraiths’ dark aura which normally alerted ordinary folk to their presence with a bolt of terror. As Arwen had thought, he moved in silence and shadow, unknown, unseen.

“He’s been following us for five days,” Eltariel said barely loud enough to be heard from where she was standing at the heart of their camp with her short swords unsheathed, turning slowly to follow the Ringwraith as he moved, “Saruman making the Gap of Rohan unsafe means we must take either the Pass of Caradhras or the Mines of Moria - though I would prefer the former to the latter. But all of that means we will pass near to Lothlórien. I am hopeful that we can lure him there behind us, and Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn can capture him, break him free even just for a short while. He may be able to give us better information on Sauron’s plans; even the smallest detail might make a world of difference.”

“And perhaps through him we can feed Sauron false information in turn,” Aragorn whispered, to both Boromir and Gandalf’s murmured agreements.

But then Talion stopped. He shook his head, like he was trying to clear his mind, shake off Sauron’s control - but then he staggered, going to his knees with a choked-off sound as red chains whipped out from his Ring again, coiling tight around him and dragging him down. Daerwen rose with an angry hiss, but she didn't move any closer to the writhing Ringwraith. After a minute or so he subsided, then stumbled back to his feet and staggered off into the trees. His horse remained where it was, but Daerwen padded carefully after him.

“How long do we have until he returns?”

“He won’t,” Eltariel answered, taking a seat to finish her watch, “but he will find us tomorrow night at about the same time.”

“That’s very reassuring,” said Boromir, his tone making it clear that it was anything but.

The Elf-Blade either didn't notice or didn’t care. “There is something to be said for routine.”

“If Sauron calls him away, we will know within a day,” Gandalf agreed, “although I cannot imagine why he would do so.”

“Nor I.”

* * *

But heavy winter snow closed the Pass of Caradhras even to the Elves, forcing them to turn back and take the road through Moria. As they approached the Doors of Durin, Gandalf asked, “Eltariel, your people in Mordor mapped much of Middle-earth. Did any of them ever venture into Moria?”

“Only Talion,” she answered, keeping her voice low and eyeing the lake that had formed before the Doors, “He would collect _mithril_ from the mines to sell and trade. But he forbade anyone else from entering - said it was too dangerous for those whose deaths would be permanent, unlike him. Do not disturb the water!”

Too late. Pippin had already thrown his rock, but Merry at least had the sense to drop his and stop his fellow Hobbit from stooping to scoop up another one. The Fellowship stood silent and watchful for several long minutes, the ripples fanning out in the water, but when nothing happened, they relaxed - though only slightly.

It took Gandalf some time to remember the password. Unfortunately Eltariel was no help there, for Talion had always entered Moria through the eastern gate, its doors long broken open, but she was able to help them set their ponies loose and redistribute their gear to be more easily carried.

But then she stopped, and reached for her blades.

Talion had arrived. He did not approach, though, choosing instead to stay on his horse and linger on the far shore of the lake, watching… but not them.

He was focused on the water as well.

It took only a few minutes more for the riddle of the Doors to be solved, but still the lone Ringwraith made no move to approach. If anything, he tugged on the reins and moved his horse further away, backing up from the Doors and the lake.

Gimli did not appear to notice the Wraith’s wariness, or attributed it to something else. “Soon, master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves,” he said to Legolas, “Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone! This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a _mine_. A _mine_!”

But then they started seeing the bodies. “This is no mine,” Boromir whispered, horrified, “It’s a tomb!”

Gimli cried out in distress at the sight of the dead, even as Legolas yanked an arrow from one of the corpses to take a look. “Goblins!” he said, and threw it down again.

The Fellowship started backing up toward the Doors again. “We make for the Gap of Rohan,” said Boromir, sword in hand, all of the fighters standing between the Hobbits and whatever forces lay within the mines, “We should never have come here. Now get out of here! Get out!”

The Ringwraith’s shriek was their only warning.

Tentacles burst from the lake and plunged into their midst, snatching at the members of the Fellowship. Frodo was dragged bodily from the Mine by one such tentacle, and heaved into the air over the thing - the Watcher in the Water - even as the warriors whirled to engage this new threat. Some of the tentacles even went for Talion, though the creature was quickly disabused of that notion when the Ringwraith’s sword cleaved through its flesh like a hot knife through butter and left green power behind as poison in the wounds.

But by some miracle the Fellowship managed to cut themselves loose from the Watcher, and they fled back into Moria even as the Watcher ripped at the doors, trying to heave itself after them. There was a tremendous crash of falling masonry, the gateway collapsing, and total darkness descended.

After a moment of fiddling, Gandalf managed a stark white light from the crystal at the end of his staff. “We now have but one choice. We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world. Quietly now. It’s a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”

“What about Talion?” Frodo said, his voice barely above a whisper, but still audible in the deep silence, “Can he get through that to follow us still?”

“If he can’t, he will be waiting for us on the other side, unless Sauron calls him away.”

* * *

There was no sign of the Ringwraith during their journey through Moria - not until the fourth day. Then, while Gandalf was trying to remember which of the three halls they should enter, there was a quiet scuffle somewhere in Moria behind them; not close... but not far away either. A familiar hissing growl reached their ears, together with an unfamiliar voice that snapped, “Nasty tricksy Ranger!” before there was the sound of bare feet galloping away, and silence fell again.

As Eltariel, Aragorn, and Boromir loosened their swords in their sheaths, Frodo moved up to stand near to the wizard. “Gandalf, what was that voice?”

“It’s Gollum,” the wizard answered, “He’s been following us since we entered Moria. It seems that Talion has finally caught up as well - and that they don’t like each other very much.”

“ _Gollum_? He escaped the dungeons of Barad-dûr?”

“Escaped…” said Gandalf, “or was set loose? And now the Ring has brought him here. He will never be rid of his need for it. He hates and loves the Ring, as he hates and loves himself. Sméagol’s life is a sad story. - Yes, Sméagol he was once called. Before the Ring found him. Before it drove him mad.”

“It’s a pity Bilbo didn’t kill him when he had the chance.”

“Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand. Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life.” He tilted his head in the general direction of the Ringwraith as if in example. “Can you give it to them, Frodo? Do not be too eager to deal out death and judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before this is over. The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many.”

“I wish the Ring had never come to me,” Frodo whispered, tears stinging his eyes, “I wish none of this had happened.”

“So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world Frodo besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, in which case you also were meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought. - Ah! It’s that way.”

“He’s remembered!” Merry said, springing to his feet.

“No,” said Gandalf, picking up his staff, “but the air doesn’t smell so foul down here. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose.”

They descended, following the path again, keeping ahead of the Ringwraith and Gollum; without sunlight to charge the barrier, they would have to rely on actual evasion to keep the Nazgûl at bay.

Then they reached the Chamber of Mazarbul and the horrible knowledge it held.

_Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria._

“They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A Shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out... They are coming.”

Pippin disturbed a corpse precariously perched on the edge of a well in the Chamber, sending its head rolling off and clattering down, the sounds echoing in the deep silence of the mines, but Eltariel was able to catch the body in time to stop the rest of it from following. Even so, they heard drums of their own in the deep, responding to the disturbance, and they fought the waves of goblins that came, then fled the Chamber, heading for the bridge of Khazad-dûm and the east gate beyond.

Talion was in the hall as well, but none of the Orcs seemed able to do him any harm no matter how many charged him at once. Dozens fell with every swing of his sword, even as the Fellowship ended up pinned down not far away - but then the Ringwraith stopped, and whipped around to look towards a large tunnel branching off the hall, right before a rumbling growl and a fiery glow from the tunnel made the Orcs look as well. The creatures fled soon after, but Talion made no move to attack the Fellowship. He only rolled his sword between his fingers, changed to a two-handed grip for a fiercer fight, and _shrieked_ a furious challenge in the direction of the yellow-orange light, fell power making the blade glow a sickly green, the corpses at his feet already starting to stir.

“Talion, _no!_ ” Eltariel shouted, lunging in to grab a fistful of his robes, “I told you, no more challenging Balrogs to swords at dawn! _Run!_ ” She whirled the Ringwraith around and shoved him ahead of them, and though he let out a distinctly unhappy screech, he obeyed and took off.

The Fellowship followed the Nazgûl out of the hall and down several flights of steps into a massive chamber, where the path narrowed such that barely two of them could walk abreast, the ground falling away on either side to a deep, magma filled pit far below. Talion flashed easily across the gap in the stairs as a cloud of smoke, reforming on the other side - then snarled again when Orcish archers appeared on ledges around the chamber and started firing on him. The balefire returned to his hand, this time in the shape of a ghostly hammer, and he threw it at a knot of the archers, killing them all at once and sending their bodies flying. Once they were across, Aragorn and Legolas drew their own bows and joined him in shooting back.

Eltariel waited until the rest of the Fellowship was across and running for the next hall before shoving him again, pushing him to the front and sending him ahead of them to the bridge of Khazad-dûm.

The bridge was even narrower than the path they had just taken, forcing them to slow their pace and go across it one by one. Gandalf was the last one to start the crossing - but half way over, he turned back to face the Balrog that appeared out of the fires. The creature roared at the wizard, and Talion shrieked a challenge of his own at it from the far side of the pit.

“Valar have _mercy_ , Talion, do you _never_ quit?!”

“You cannot pass!” Gandalf shouted at the Balrog as it took a step onto the bridge. Power gathered around him, focusing on his staff. The crystal at the top was glowing with renewed intensity. “I am the servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Flame of Anor! The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!”

The Balrog conjured a sword of flame and swung it down at the wizard, who parried it with his own sword. The flame-blade was shattered in the process, giving Talion an opening. He threw one of his balefire hammers, catching the Balrog right between the eyes and making it stagger back.

That gave Gandalf an opening of his own, and he blasted it in the chest with some kind of spell, making it fall even further back, sending it to its knees even. “Go back to the Shadow!”

The Balrog roared in fury and lunged forward, this time calling a whip and cracking it menacingly in Gandalf’s direction. The wizard was forced to step back to evade, but he still shouted, “YOU! SHALL NOT! PASS!!”

He slammed his staff and sword together down onto the bridge with a flash of white light, but what he had accomplished was not immediately apparent. The Balrog took another step-

-and the bridge crumbled under it, sending it falling away into the fathomless cavern below. Yet as it fell, its whip snared Gandalf as he turned to follow the rest of the Fellowship, and dragged him to the edge of the bridge. “Fly, you fools!” he cried, and then lost his grip and plunged after the Balrog into the darkness below.

“ _Gandalf!_ ” Frodo cried, and tried to rush back to the bridge - to do what, not even he knew - but Borormir caught him and bore him away. Talion looked ready to go back to the bridge as well - more to fight the Balrog than anything else - but Eltariel kicked him in the shins, then shoved him ahead of them again, at least until they reached the east gate.

There the Ringwraith hissed and withdrew from the bright light of the noontime sun, and would go no further. But the hordes of Moria Orcs were still in pursuit, or would be soon, and the Fellowship could not afford to linger and try to drag him the rest of the way to Lothlórien. “Leave him!” Aragorn called as they fled into the light, “He will follow soon enough. Leave him!”

Daerwen lay sunning herself on the rocks just beyond the gates, and though she lifted her head to watch them as they passed her by, she made no attempt to stop them.

The remainder of the Fellowship raced through the last few foothills of the Misty Mountains, then crossed the Nimrodel River and entered the eaves of the forest. Once there, Eltariel called out to the guards watching the borders, and soon enough they emerged from the leaves to speak with her.

It took a lot of persuasive arguing from her _and_ Aragorn and even a few words from Legolas, but at last they were escorted to Caras Galadhon. It was only when they were finally on their way, most of the party blindfolded - all save for Eltariel herself - that Aragorn was finally able to ask, “‘More’, Eltariel?”

“Pardon?”

“In Moria, you said Talion was not allowed to challenge _more_ Balrogs to ‘swords at dawn’. Meaning he’s _already done it_ at least once?”

“Indeed. While they were waging war against Sauron, he and Celebrimbor woke a Balrog called Tar Goroth that had been buried in the shadow of Mount Doom, and so it fell to them to bury it again. I was not actually there for the fight, though I saw it from a distance. Afterwards, there were… I don't actually know how many attempts to drag the thing back up and set it loose again, but suffice to say he has an intense hatred for Balrogs.”

“...Idril made no mention of that. Exactly what kind of things has he gotten up to in Mordor?”

“More than any of us will ever know.”

* * *

They met with Celeborn and Galadriel who ruled the forest, and were given sanctuary for a time. The cares of the world seemed far away under the eaves of the Mallorn trees, but at last Aragorn approached the Elven lord and lady about laying a trap for Talion.

“So _that_ is who lingers at the edge of our woods,” Galadriel said softly, “I had wondered which of them it was. You wish to _capture_ him?”

“We have seen that he is not… _completely_ lost. Not yet. With your power, Your Grace, you might be able to break Sauron’s hold for a time,” said Eltariel, “He may be able to tell us something of the Enemy’s plans.”

“And in our turn,” said Aragorn, “we may be able to feed the Enemy false information about our own intent.”

Celeborn and Galadriel looked at each other and seemed to communicate without words. At last, the Elf lord turned back to them. “This we will do - but there is something else that must be resolved first. If we are to trap a Ringwraith, there is only one bait that will suffice - only one that he will take. Frodo Baggins, are you willing to take this risk?”

All eyes went to the hobbit, who swallowed thickly, then nodded and said, “I am willing.”

They planned it for that very night, when Talion would emerge again from wherever he went to escape the daylight. There were some parts of the forest edge not protected by the power of the Eldar, and it was to one of these areas that they went, though they stayed close to the barrier for safety’s sake. Talion’s own Ring would never be able to overcome Galadriel’s Nenya, but he could still cause a lot of harm before he was taken down or driven away.

Frodo was positioned in a clearing just beyond the Eldar’s barrier, holding the Ring, with the rest of the Fellowship and nearly an army of Elves concealed in the woods around the clearing, ready to fight if the Nazgûl attacked. Galadriel and Celeborn themselves were on opposite sides of the clearing with Frodo between them, so they could reach out with their power and capture Talion at the last possible second, leaving the hobbit free to throw himself and the One Ring backwards through the barrier and to safety.

And then they waited.

It was after midnight before Talion finally melted out of the trees without so much as disturbing the leaves, silent even to Elven ears. Yet it was obvious that he was wary; though his unseen eyes were on Frodo, he lingered on the far side of the clearing, pacing, scenting the air.

“He suspects a trap,” Aragorn murmured, “Will he approach, do you think?”

“We shall see.”

The Ringwraith took a few steps closer to the hobbit, then stopped and sniffed once more. He did it several more times until he was almost in range, the hobbit working very hard indeed to keep his breathing steady as the Nazgûl drew perilously near… But then Talion hissed sharply and skittered back and away almost to the opposite tree line again.

“Sorry,” Pippin whispered, trying to muffle his gurgling stomach.

But then there was the repetitive _fwap_ of leathery wings, and Eltariel frantically hissed, “Don’t shoot! _Áva lerya!”_ as Daerwen glided down out of the night to land in the clearing not far from Talion. He looked to her and stood utterly still as she approached, not reacting at all as she scented, then nuzzled him.

Then she peered around at them and - _impossibly_ \- seemed to understand their intent. “Daerwen is _extremely_ intelligent,” Eltariel whispered as the drake nudged Talion toward the Ringbearer, “I cannot say for sure because I was never deeply involved in the drake-breeding program, but I believe she has more dragon in her than the others. That may also be the reason for her greater size.”

“More _dragon_?!” Boromir hissed, nervously drumming his fingers on the handle of his sword.

“Fire-drakes were made by Sauron by crossing dragons with Fell Beasts,” she whispered back, “Initially they were infertile, but Talion changed that, and breeds the drakes much the same way the Rohirrim do their prized horses, with variances in the blood for the different qualities he seeks. Strength, intelligence, fire...”

The Ringwraith himself was moving toward Frodo again. Daerwen’s presence seemed to lend him a sense of protection, because he was less wary than before - but not entirely unguarded.

He sensed the Elf lord and lady at the last possible second - but it was not long enough for him to evade and escape. He screamed when their power closed around him in ropes of white, even as Frodo scrambled backwards through the barrier, tucking the One on its chain back into his shirt. Power of the Wraith’s own clashed with the Elves’ - but he could not overcome them no matter how hard he struggled. Even as he did that, Eltariel and seven other Elves stepped forward with the spheres-on-stakes that raised the Ringwraith-repelling barrier, and then drove the stakes into the ground and erected the barrier _around_ him to hold him in place.

Celeborn and Galadriel relaxed a little, but did not let go. “And now we wait,” said the lady, stepping from the trees and signaling for the archers up above to stand down unless they were threatened, “Sauron’s control over him will be weakest when the sun is at its height.”

Daerwen laid down at the edge of the barrier and curled up, to all appearances going to sleep, but the tip of her spiked tail continued twitching like a cat’s, and there was the faintest reflective gleam where her eyes were just barely cracked. Talion didn’t react to her, only hissed faintly in the Elves’ direction, and huddled in a tight ball of black fabric close to the ground, trying to make himself as small a target as possible where he was bound.

The red chains made an appearance more than a few times that night, like Talion was caught in a game of tug-of-war between Sauron and the Elves, but dawn broke without either of them yielding.

The Ringwraith shivered at the first touch of sunlight through the trees, but then he seemed to relax into it even as the red chains came back, constant now. But they grew dimmer and started flickering fitfully as the day wore on, and Talion got up to pace, growling and periodically shaking his head, trying to throw off Sauron’s influence.

“Come on, Talion,” Eltariel murmured, “ _Fight_. Don't tell me you're going to give up _now_.”

If he heard the Elf-Blade, he didn't react, continuing to pace. He grew more agitated as the day wore on, and began clawing at his bonds, both red and white. Finally the sun rose high enough that it shone down directly into the clearing, bathing them all in light, and Talion staggered and fell to his knees, audibly panting.

“Come on, Talion,” Eltariel said again, “ _Fight!_ ”

The Nazgûl snarled at her and stumbled back to his feet to keep pacing, but he did seem to start actively resisting Sauron’s control. The air of the clearing grew heavy with dark power and dueling minds, clashing wills.

And Talion won. The red chains cracked with sounds like thunder, then shattered like glass - and the Elf-Blade was there in an instant to catch him as he collapsed. She pulled back his hood - revealing a Man. Still corpse-pale and blue-lipped, darkness writhing under his skin like a living thing all its own. Still with dark, straggly and unwashed hair falling to his shoulders, stark against his waxy skin.

But it was Talion, himself again - for the moment. **“Eltariel,”** he managed, moving as if to lift his head before letting it fall back again, **“Where - no. No, don’t tell me.”**

“Daerwen,” said the Elf, “Here, girl.”

The drake got up and shuffled closer to her rider, purring loud enough that she could be heard throughout the whole clearing. **“Sweetheart,”** Talion murmured, turning to her but closing his eyes as he buried his face against her scales. **“Why have you…?”**

“We need information,” the Elf said to him, “What can you tell us of the Enemy’s plans?”

 **“Enough,”** he answered bitterly, hands going tight on Daerwen’s spikes even as she continued purring in an attempt to soothe him, **“Sauron’s forces are greater than we knew - he has near three hundred and fifty thousand Orcs, perhaps more, and an army of two hundred thousand Easterlings with a much smaller but still significant number of Haradrim.”**

“Valar have _mercy_ …” Boromir whispered.

“And how does he plan to use them?”

**“The Easterlings are already in motion, crossing Rhûn to go north and lay siege to Dale and Erebor. A force of two hundred thousand Orcs is not far behind them; that will divide into two forces of a hundred thousand each and strike at Mirkwood and Lothlórien. Saruman has been told to break Rohan with his own force, the one he has bred within the walls of Isengard, so the rest of Sauron’s forces will strike at Minas Tirith. I think that will be a hundred thousand as well, and the Haradrim, so that he may keep some forces back to protect Mordor.”**

When one of the Eldar who understood Westron translated his words for the others, murmurs of concern started racing through the assembled Elves. Even Celeborn and Galadriel showed some trepidation, though Talion didn't see. The Ringwraith continued, **“There is more. The Steward of Gondor, Denethor, has a Palantír that he has been using to scout Middle-earth from afar. It cannot be lied to - but Sauron has hidden all good things happening from his sight and pushed all evil to the fore. He has chipped away at his mind and soul these long years, and now seeks one last strike to shatter him completely and so break most of the resistance in Gondor.**

**“He seeks the deaths of both of the Steward’s sons, Boromir and Faramir.”**

_That_ made Boromir go _white_ and fall to his knees, but still Talion didn’t look up, keeping his face buried against his drake’s scaly hide.

“Such numbers and plans… He means to shatter the West with one blow,” Aragorn said quietly.

Eltariel nodded, equally grim. “Talion, can Sauron see into your mind? Will he know you have spoken to us?”

He let out a soft laugh. **“No. He cannot, not without compromising his control over me. One, or the other. He is not strong enough to do both - not yet. Not without the One.”**

“And what about you? Will you be forced by your Ring to tell him all that has transpired?”

He tilted his head in her direction, though he still didn’t open his eyes. **“...You want me to pass him information.”**

“If you can.”

**“...my Ring cannot force me to tell him the truth, but just to be safe, do not tell me your real plans. I can only inform him of what I know.”**

“Very well,” said Eltariel, gesturing, “but we would also give you _hope_. There is one whose face we would have you look upon.”

Aragorn came and knelt next to the Elf, while all others moved away so they would not be seen. When Eltariel laid a hand on the Ringwraith’s shoulder, he looked up, and his burning eyes took everything in. “This is Aragorn,” she said, “son of Arathorn - and Heir of Isildur.”

The Man inhaled softly, straightening, burning eyes examining Aragorn’s face. **“Yes, indeed. You have his look.”** Then he pressed a hand to his heart, and bowed as best he could. **“ _My king,_ ”** he whispered.

“You honor me, and all of Gondor, with your continued service even in the hands of the Enemy,” Aragorn said, “We will take it from here. Our intent is to take the One to Minas Tirith, where I will declare myself and claim both it and my throne by right of blood, and then go forth against Sauron from there and unseat him from Barad-dûr - although there have been rumors he is preparing to move against the White City; I am unsure if we will make it in time.”

When Talion looked up again, the other Ranger pointedly raised his eyebrows, and the Ringwraith nodded, understanding what the Man was - and _wasn’t_ \- saying. **“His plans will change with this, but if that is the will of the king, then let it be done.”**

Aragorn smiled faintly, and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. “Be at peace, son of Gondor. This fight will soon be over, and you too will be free.”

* * *

Eltariel banished Talion to Barad-dûr by way of one of her long knives through his stomach. He choked on a breath, then dissolved into the black cloud and flashed away into the sky, speeding east and south. Daerwen watched him go with a vaguely irritated expression, then got to her feet.

“Daerwen, wait,” said Eltariel. When the drake’s head snaked around to peer at her, she continued, “We need you to take a message to Idril. I’ve no doubt she has _some_ kind of distraction planned, to pull Sauron’s attention in that many more directions at once. She needs to be ready to strike at a moment’s notice, as soon as we give her the signal.”

The drake distinctly huffed and laid back down, waiting. The Elf-Blade quickly wrote up the message, waited for the ink to dry, then tucked it into one of the waterproof saddlebags attached to her harness. She shook herself to make sure everything was secure, then leaped into the sky and winged away, following Talion back toward Mordor.

The Fellowship lingered a little while longer in Lothlórien, recovering from their harrowing journey so far, before setting out down the Anduin. “You will be faster on the water than on land,” said Celeborn as a number of Elves prepared boats full of supplies for their departure, “Mordor Orcs - unfriendly ones - now hold the eastern shore, and Saruman’s own patrol this side. By river you have a chance of outrunning them both.”

The Lord and Lady of Lothlórien gave each of them gifts to aid them on their journey, weapons and Elven cloaks and supplies, fresh armor for Eltariel and a Phial of Starlight for Frodo to defend against the darkness. Then the Fellowship cast off from the dock, and paddled out into the river to let it carry them away.

* * *

Frodo knew he should have ignored the sounds, but he couldn't. His own heart ached along with Boromir’s, knowing what they now did of Sauron’s plans for his home and family. “Boromir?”

The Man straightened sharply from where he had been bending over to collect dry wood for a fire, his hand falling to the handle of his sword. Then he relaxed a little, but still hurriedly wiped his face with his sleeve to clear his tears. “Frodo,” he said, sniffling a little, “You of all of us should not be out here alone.”

“I needed to stretch my legs,” the hobbit said, taking a few steps closer but still keeping a careful distance between him and the Man. He had proven susceptible to the Ring before, and the hobbit did not want to tempt fate. “Traveling by boat is swift indeed, and perfect for our purposes, but at the end of the day I find myself cramped and sore and in strong need of a walk.”

Boromir let out a weak laugh. “You will find no arguments here,” he said, bending down again to pick up the dead branch, “I have trained for many years in Gondor’s army, wielding my sword to protect her people, but even so I find I am weary as if from a day’s fighting by sundown, even though I have done naught but paddle a boat down a river. Yet I find that I also am restless, and need to get up and move around after sitting for so long.”

“I imagine that being worried for your family doesn't help,” Frodo said, also starting to collect wood for the fire.

“Aye,” he said sadly, with another soft sniffle, “My father has been a grim and forbidding man ever since the death of my lady mother, may she be at peace and her memory a blessing, but he has grown worse in recent years. I suppose now I have the answer for why that is so, and I fear for him - I fear what my death and Faramir’s would do to him. He is Steward of Gondor, but I have never thought that he loves our land and devotes himself to her the way we do. We are all he has, and it is as Talion has said - it would break him beyond the barest breath of hope to lose us.”

“I am worried for my kin as well,” Frodo said quietly, “Their situation is not nearly so dire as Gondor’s, being on Mordor’s very doorstep as you are, but… the Lady Galadriel showed me her magic Mirror. The things I saw within it linger in my mind - the Shire burning, all my kin in chains - turning the most innocent of dreams into horrible nightmares.” This Ring… it put them all in such great danger. They had already lost Gandalf because of it; the others should not have to die as well to see it destroyed. Perhaps he should...

“I looked into no Mirror, but I share your fears.” Boromir looked grim indeed, even as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. He looked south and east, where Mordor waited. “If I had the power to avert this terror that awaits us all - storm the Black Gate, lay siege to Barad-dûr, break Sauron’s seat of strength once and for all - then I would do it in a heartbeat, even if my life was the price demanded for such deeds.” For a moment Frodo feared the Man had been taken by the Ring again, that it had promised him the power to do just that - but then Boromir stopped, and listened, growing alarmed. “Frodo, do you hear-?”

“Yes,” the hobbit whispered, ears pricked, “Footsteps - a great many, heavy and moving swiftly - they're coming this way!” His hands fell to Sting at his hip, pulling the short blade halfway out to check -

Sting glowed blue, clear and bright.

“Back to the others! _Hurry!_ ” the Man cried, dropping the branches and drawing his sword.

Frodo took off in an instant, running at top speed for where they had left the others on the riverbank. He heard Boromir crashing along behind him, pausing occasionally to see if they were pursued before turning back completely - followed by ringing metal. The hobbit glanced back for only a moment to see the Gondorian now fighting a handful of Orcs, killing one right at the outset before engaging another, running it through.

He burst through the trees a dozen meters away from the camp and skidded on the small stones the river had smoothed on its banks over so many years. “Orcs!” he cried, waving Sting to show the glowing blade even as the others jumped to their feet in alarm, “Boromir’s fighting them! That way!”

“Stay with the boats!” Aragorn shouted, already sprinting in the direction Frodo had indicated.

“Where are the other hobbits?! Merry and Pippin?!” Gimli cried, in hot pursuit, even as Legolas and Eltariel darted ahead of him and Aragorn both, “They’re in danger as well in these woods!”

In moments they were gone, though the distant sounds of combat still reached the hobbit’s ears. ‘Merry and Pippin,’ Frodo thought, ‘They chose to come on this quest of their own free will, but they do not deserve to die for it - they shouldn't have to. _No one_ should have to die to destroy this accurséd Ring. And Sam…’

Yet the other hobbit seemed to have guessed his thoughts, because the instant Frodo looked his way, Sam stood up and pulled on his pack. “You're not going to Mordor without me, Mr. Frodo,” he said firmly, “I made a promise, Mr. Frodo. A _promise_. ‘Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee.’ And I don’t mean to. I don’t mean to.”

“Oh, Sam…” Frodo said sadly, sheathing Sting, “Very well. Help me with one of these boats. We need to hurry.”

* * *

There were too many Orcs. No matter how many they cut down, there was another springing forward to take its place, snarling and swinging their weapons. These were Saruman’s servants, going by the white hands plastered on their armor, and they fought hard indeed - until suddenly they didn’t, breaking off and sprinting away through the trees, following the apparent call of their commander.

“Come back here, you cowards, and get a taste of my axe!” Gimli shouted after them, brandishing the blade, already stained black with Orc blood.

Legolas drew one last arrow to send it through the back of a straggler. “Why have they retreated?!” he cried, “Their numbers were too great for us - why have they run?!”

“They took the little ones!”

All of them turned to see Boromir staggering through the trees, Eltariel close behind, their weapons dripping with black. The Man stumbled and slid as he tried to descend a leaf-strewn hill to meet them, but he forced himself back to his feet again as he reached the bottom and approached them. “The Orcs took them - Merry and Pippin, just snatched them up and fled,” he gasped, bent nearly double, “Frodo - where is Frodo?”

They all ran back to the shore, but Frodo and Sam had already crossed to the other side and vanished into the trees. “No,” Aragorn said, when the others made as if to follow, “Let them go. Two hobbits may pass unseen where we would draw hordes of Orcs. Their fate is no longer in our hands; it is Merry and Pippin who need us now. We cannot abandon them to torment and death.” He turned to Boromir. “Are you well enough to travel, my friend?”

“I will be,” the Man answered, and hurriedly treated his wounds - some blade cuts, nothing too severe thanks to Eltariel’s timely arrival, beheading the archer about to fill him full of arrows - before they gathered up what little they dared take and raced back into the trees.

Their party followed as close behind the Orcs as they could, yet they always seemed just out of reach - but still on the right track, if the brooch they found was anything to go by. “Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall,” said Aragorn, brushing off the worst of the dirt.

“They may yet be alive,” Eltariel said, briefly plucking the leaf from his hands to straighten it out where it had been bent from being trod on by Orcs. Then she handed it back.

“Less than a day ahead of us,” the Man agreed, tucking the brooch into one of his pockets before starting to run again.

“Come on, Gimli, Boromir! We’re gaining on them!” Legolas called back to their own panting stragglers.

Boromir groaned aloud. “I want our hobbits back just as much as the rest of you,” he gasped, staggering after the others, “but at some point the need for rest will outweigh our ability to continue! We need to stop _before_ we reach that point!”

“Agreed!” Gimli cried, “I am wasted on cross-county. We Dwarves are natural sprinters! Very dangerous over short distances.”

“The important word being _short_ , hey?” the Man grinned.

“Oh, if I but had the strength to swing my axe, boy…!”

But they kept running anyway, somehow finding the energy to at least keep in sight of the tireless Elves and Dúnadan until at last they paused atop some boulders breaking through the soil. “Rohan, home of the Horse-lords,” said Aragorn, “But there is something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us.” Noticing both Legolas and Eltariel scaling the rocks, he called up to them, “What do your Elf-eyes see?”

“The Uruks turn northeast!” Legolas called back, even as Eltariel’s eyes narrowed in anger, “They’re taking the hobbits to Isengard!”

“Saruman,” Aragorn growled and started running again, “No doubt there is some fell sorcery at work in Rohan as well, that the Rohirrim let these creatures cross their lands without fear, but we shall attend to that when our companions are safe again!”

Boromir was quiet save for his panting, but Gimli at least had breath for speech. “Keep breathing. That’s the key. Breathe. Ohh.”

They kept moving, and ran through the night before Legolas spoke with the dawn. “A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night.”

A grimness descended on the company. Blood had been shed - but whose? Was their pursuit now in vain?

But then both Elves perked up, closely followed by the Ranger. He hurriedly signalled them all into cover, and they darted into the boulders littering the landscape right before a band of Rohirrim came thundering over the ridge. When the last of them had galloped past their hiding place, Aragorn emerged and called after them, “Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?”

In moments, the horsemen brought their mounts around and had the remnant of the Fellowship surrounded at spearpoint. One of them, the leader, swung down from his horse and moved a little closer to get a better look at them. “What business do two Elves, two Men, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!”

“Give me your name, horsemaster, and I shall give you mine,” Gimli growled, even as Boromir groaned silently.

“I would cut off your head, dwarf,” the leader returned, “if it stood but a little higher from the ground.”

In an instant Legolas had his bow out and strung, with an arrow nocked, and Boromir buried his face in his hands, shaking his head as Aragorn patted his shoulder in sympathy. “You would die before your stroke fell!”

It was then that the Ranger inserted himself into the conversation before it could fall further apart. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he said, “This is Gimli, son of Gloin; Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor; Eltariel of Lothlórien; and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden your king.”

The horseman’s face turned more grim than before, and Aragorn felt then that his thought had been right; there was some fell sorcery laid on the land by the hand of Saruman. “Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe,” said the horseman, finally removing his helmet to reveal that he was Éomer, the king’s own nephew, “Not even his own kin.”

He signaled, and the Riders all lifted their spears away. “Saruman has poisoned the mind of the King and claimed lordship over his lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan, and for that we are banished. The white wizard is cunning. He walks here and there they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked, and everywhere his spies slip past our nets.”

Aragorn nodded in acknowledgement but said, “We are no spies. We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain - they have taken two of our friends captive.”

“The Uruks are destroyed,” the horseman replied, “We slaughtered them during the night.”

“But there were two hobbits!” Gimli cried, “Did you see two hobbits with them?”

“They would be small, only children to our eyes,” Aragorn added.

Éomer’s lips tightened. “...We left none alive,” he said finally, “We piled the carcasses and burned them.”

“Dead?” Gimli whispered, tears starting to gather in his eyes, and Éomer nodded. The dwarf turned away in grief, even as Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder in sympathy.

The Riders gave them the horses of their fallen to speed them along their journey, then bade them farewell. The remainder of the Fellowship followed the Rohirrim’s path to the edge of Fangorn Forest, where they found what little remained of the band of Uruks. Both Gimli and Boromir started digging through the still-smoldering pile of bodies, searching for any sign…

The dwarf finally turned back to the Elves and Ranger, holding something up. “It’s one of their wee belts.”

“ _Hiro hyn hîdh ab ‘wanath_ ,” Legolas murmured. _May they find peace after death._

Aragorn yelled aloud and kicked one of the Orc helmets away into the distance quite a ways before falling to his knees. It was then that he saw the marks, the scuffs in the grass. “A hobbit lay here, and the other,” he said sadly, laying a hand in each stretch of pressed-flat grass.

But then he started seeing other tracks. Though overlaid with the stamping hooves of the Rohirrim horses and the broad, heavy feet of the Uruk-hai, it was still clear enough to make out. “They crawled… Their hands were bound.” He followed the wiggle marks until he saw something in the grass. He grabbed it and pulled it out - revealing a roughly severed length of rope. “Their bonds were _cut_.”

There was a second length not far away, which Boromir found and clutched to his chest like the frailest lifeline of hope. He fell in behind Aragorn, even as the Ranger continued following what he could see of the tracks. “They ran over here - they were followed. The tracks lead away from the battle…”

The shadows of the trees fell over them.

“...into Fangorn Forest.”

Gimli breathed deep, then said, “What madness drove them in there?”

Boromir looked to Aragorn. “You said they were followed. Were they followed in _there_?”

The Ranger examined the tracks, then loosened his sword in its sheath and stepped into the trees. One by one, the others followed.

* * *

Sam shifted just slightly where he was sitting in the grass, and his foot slipped off the path and into the water with a strangely muffled splash. “Ooh! I hate this place, Mr. Frodo! Isn't there another way round?”

“Another way?” Gollum rasped, hobbling back through the grass to where the two hobbits were eating part of their daily ration of Lembas, “No, not another way. This is the safest road, Master; orcs don’t use it, orcs don’t know it. Nasty place this is, but safe from orcses. But the Dead Marshes has their own dangers, yes. Must be careful, Master.”

A shriek from overhead sent them looking frantically around, then diving for cover. “Black Riders,” Sam whispered, “I thought they were dead! Eltariel _stabbed_ Talion, and he turned to smoke and disappeared!”

“Dead?” Gollum whispered, “No, no, Precious. Nasty tricksy Ranger _dies_ and _dies_ and _always_ returns. None of them can die - not for good.”

There was another frightful scream, and the Ringwraith finally came into view.

It was Talion.

 _Not the strongest or swiftest or greatest of the Nine - in many ways not even close - but he is still more dangerous than those that_ are.

Now he rode on the back of a massive drake-like creature on the wing, a Fell Beast, long-necked, long-tailed, clawed and fanged, but not armored, not _scaled_ the way the drakes were - like Daerwen was, circling near the cloudbank high overhead. Talion brought it down not far away, and the Fell Beast landed with a growl on a narrow part of the path, just wide enough to fit it, its ash-grey hide now spattered with mud. The Ringwraith slowly scanned the landscape, searching for them.

Daerwen came down next to him a few minutes later and also swept the area - but unlike her rider, she spotted Gollum and the hobbits right away and narrowed her eyes. But then she pointedly sniffed the air, sneezed, and hissed angrily. She snorted and rubbed at her nose with a wing-hand, then spread her wings and took flight again, snarling her displeasure even as her wings scattered a rain of mud and dirty water.

Talion sniffed the air as well, longer and more thoroughly, but at last he too huffed and squeezed his legs just slightly. The Fell Beast spread its own wings and followed her back up into the darkening sky.

Frodo too took a sniff and had to stop himself from vomiting, lifting part of his coat to cover his mouth. Once the air had been still and dead, smelling of nothing in particular except _wet_. Now the whole area stank of filth and rotting plants. Then he realized. “She covered our scent,” he coughed out, “Daerwen - the water and mud on her wings - when she took off again, it scattered the smell of it everywhere so _Talion_ couldn't smell _us_. She covered our scent - and then lured him away.”

“ _Yes_ , yes, Master. The Dreadful Woman’s always been smarter than the other beastses like her,” Gollum said, scowling up at her through the branches of their bush as she and Talion circled higher and higher and finally flew back toward Mordor, “Nasty tricksy Ranger always called her his _pride and joy_ , yes, Precious. She never liked poor Sméagol, always drove him off from the campses with _fire_ even when all poor Sméagol wanted was bits of food.”

“An’ you probably deserved it, too,” Sam grumbled, “C’mon, Mr. Frodo. Let’s keep moving. That little hill there looks like a better place to camp than down here by the water.”

* * *

“Fangorn Forest is strange,” Boromir murmured, “and these tracks are stranger still. What manner of creature has made them?”

“This forest is old. Very old. Full of memory and anger,” said Legolas.

Eltariel was looking around with a faint smile on her face, despite the danger. “The trees are speaking to each other,” she said.

“Gimli, lower your axe,” Aragorn murmured, and the dwarf obeyed, grunting when the trees creaked in response.

“They have feelings, my friend,” said Legolas, “The Elves began it. Waking up the trees, teaching them to speak.”

Gimli grumbled a little. “Talking trees. What do trees have to talk about? Except the consistency of squirrel droppings?”

“Aragorn, _nad no ennas..._ ” _Something’s out there..._

“ _Man cenich?_ ” _What do you see?_

“The White Wizard approaches,” Eltariel whispered, and everyone’s hands went to their weapons even as the brush rustled behind them.

“Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us,” Aragorn said in the barest whisper, “We must be quick.”

They whirled as one, even as they were blinded by a brilliantly white light. Gimli threw his axe and Legolas fired an arrow, but both were batted aside in an instant. Both Aragorn and Boromir’s swords glowed with sudden heat, and they were forced to drop them even as Eltariel leaped for the wizard. Yet she too was knocked back, even if she flipped back to her feet the instant she touched the ground again.

“You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits,” said a voice, and it sounded so very like Saruman, though there was… something else to it, too.

“Where are they?”

“They passed this way, the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?”

“Who are you? Show yourself!” Aragorn demanded.

The light faded at last - revealing Gandalf’s smiling face. No longer was he clad in dark, drab grey; now he wore white robes, with a smooth, elegant staff of white wood in his hand.

There were cries of surprise and awe from the Fellowship, and they welcomed him back gladly. Still, Aragorn said, “You fell.”

“Through fire, and water,” Gandalf confirmed, “From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak I fought him - the Balrog of Morgoth. Talion joined me as well, and Daerwen, every night from the moment the sun set to the moment it rose again, and we did battle against him until at last we threw down our enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside. But though their aid was beyond price, I had still been gravely wounded. Darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as a life-age of the earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again. I’ve been sent back, until my task is done.”

“Gandalf,” Aragorn whispered.

“Gandalf?” said the wizard, “ _Yes_ , that was what they used to call me. Gandalf the _Grey_. That was my name. _I_ am Gandalf the _White_ , and I come back to you now at the turn of the tide.”

* * *

Freeing King Théoden from Saruman ended up being the easiest part of aiding Rohan. Less than half an hour after he cast Gríma Wormtongue from his house, a pair of child refugees arrived from one of the outlying villages, bringing ill news indeed. Wild Men sent by Saruman were moving through the Westfold, burning as they went, driving the people of Rohan before them.

Théoden ordered Edoras emptied, evacuated to Helm’s Deep in the White Mountains. Gandalf did not think it wise, and left to seek aid, though not just within the borders of Rohan; Eltariel told him where to send a messenger bird to reach the Eyries of their drake-rider corps, and what to say. If they could reach them in time, and were not needed elsewhere, they would come.

Boromir was understandably hesitant; having fought Mordor for his entire life, he was wary of accepting aid from that land, much less _asking_ for it. But he was willing to follow Aragorn’s lead in this, and in turn the Ranger felt that they could not afford to turn away the help, if it came.

It did, and more swiftly than they expected. When the Wargs and their riders attacked the caravan, one leaping for the king himself, there was a great gust of wind, and a drake snatched up both beast and rider in its claws. It swooped back up into the sky even as it dipped its head to rip off the Warg’s own. Then it dropped the remains, and made sure that the body landed on another Warg in the process.

“Leave them be! They’re a messenger!” Eltariel called to the Rohirrim, and when the king confirmed the command, they kept their bows bent toward the forces of Saruman.

The drake was indeed too small and light to be a war-drake, and wore a harness that devoted more space to tightly-sealed saddlebags than the actual saddle for its rider. Still, that didn't mean they couldn't fight, and the drake pursued the Wargs with fangs and claws while the rider - hooded and masked - shot arrow after arrow down into the beasts, mindful not to pierce the drake’s wings as it flew.

They lost only a few warriors to the Wargs. Still, the drake-rider - a _Haradrim woman_ , of all things, dark-skinned and artfully tattooed - brought news that half a dozen war-drakes, bred for their size and strength and the intensity of their fire and the length of time they could breathe it, were on their way from the Ephel Dúath, and would arrive at Helm’s Deep later that day, about the same time that the Rohirrim themselves would.

Saruman’s forces wouldn't be far behind. “I saw them from the air,” she told Théoden and Aragorn, standing within sight of her drake as he drank from the river below the battlefield, “It was only a quick pass overhead, but it was enough. There are ten thousand Uruk-hai infantry, _at least_ , and they carry many engines of war with them - trebuchets, ballistas, and ladders long enough to top the Deeping Wall.”

Théoden let out a heavy breath. “Saruman’s arm has grown long indeed. But we still must get these people to the Deep. They will be safer there than here in the open, and if it comes to it, there is a way out of the cavern shelter below the fortress, out into the mountains. Some might survive.”

“Then we shall pray it does not come to that.”

“Is there no aid that can come from Gondor also?” Boromir asked.

The Harad woman - Rui by name - shook her head. “Sauron is trying to seize the Anduin crossing at Osgiliath,” she answered, “and every day more and more of his allies come up the Harad Road to the Black Gate. The Rangers of Ithilien - and your brother, Faramir - are doing what they can to stop them and hold the river, but even combined with aid we have sent from Mordor, we do not have the strength to stop them.

“Which reminds me, I have been told to pass along a message to you from two halflings under the Rangers’ protection. Word only, nothing written.”

All the members of the Fellowship straightened at that. _Two halflings near Mordor_ \- that could only be Frodo and Sam. “We are listening,” said Aragorn.

“‘We are going with the Rangers of Ithilien to their destination,’” said Rui, “‘and there we shall break away and seek the path that Idril spoke of.’ That is the entirety of the message.”

Aragorn nodded and gave his thanks, and Rui departed soon after to more thoroughly scout Saruman’s army. Both Legolas and Eltariel were nearly _beaming_ with joy as they remounted their horses, and even Gimli was smiling wide under his thick beard. “They are safe,” Boromir whispered, a few tears trickling down his face, “I have faith in Faramir; in so many ways he is stronger than I, though our father always refused to see. He will protect them with his life, if need be.”

Aragorn gripped his shoulder with a warm smile of his own. “Then we shall trust Faramir to see them safely to Osgiliath,” he said, “We have battles of our own to fight.”

* * *

The war-drakes were indeed _war_ -drakes, much larger and tougher-looking than the small and agile messenger. Rui introduced them to the drakes and their riders - two men, Alagos and Olthedir, with Galadwen and Gwelu; two women, Angreth (apparently the daughter of Idril and her husband Baranor, cousin to Rui) and Gwathiel, with Thînel and Lachon; and two Mordor Orcs, Skoth and Zunn, with Gaerdis and Filegien. These last were looked on with suspicion by the Rohirrim, but Eltariel greeted them warmly enough, and the rest of the Fellowship followed her lead and were at least cordial to the Orcs.

When the introductions were done, Skoth turned to Théoden. “You're in charge here?” When the Man nodded, he asked, “Where do you want us? We’re at your command.”

“You have experience fighting from the air, and with your drakes,” the king said a little stiffly, “What do you recommend?”

The Orc looked around with a soft hum. “Got a nice long gorge here. Saruman’s fighters’re gonna have to come pretty far in to get at the fortress. If we stay at that end at first, where it opens up onto the plains,” he said, pointing, “half of us on each side, we can wait until they pass us by, then lay down a fireline to trap ‘em in here. Some of ‘em, at least; don’t know if they'll all be able to fit. But _that_ ’d cut the force down, so we don't need to deal with ‘em all at once.

“But once they’re trapped in here, if we’ve all got enough arrows, it’ll be like shootin’ fish in a barrel. They don’t have armor on their backs,” he continued, pointedly turning and patting his own back plate, “and with us comin’ from that direction and you all from over here, they're gonna have to turn their backs on _someone_ in order to fight.”

“They won’t try to retreat?”

“Don’t think they even know the meanin’ of the word, but if they do try to run, they'll end up headin’ right into the fireline.”

Zunn sniffed the air, then nodded. “Gonna be rain tonight. ‘S good, means it won’t burn out of control, but we’re gonna need to refresh the line a few times. Maybe set Rui and Nagnir on it so we can focus on fighting.” He smiled and patted Filegien’s nose, and she purred and butted his hand.

The king nodded. “Then that is what we will do. We will signal when we want you to strike.”

All of the drakes and their riders hid themselves amongst the rocks at the far end of the gorge - until just after sunset, when Rui and Nagnir took flight and came to the Hornburg. There wasn’t near enough room in the Hornburg for the drake to land, but Rui could project her voice quite loud for one so slight. “Elves!” she called down to the king and the men on the battlements, “There is a force of Elves from Lothlórien entering the gorge!”

There was indeed, Haldir at the head of the column, and he greeted the king as they passed through the gates. “I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell. An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago we fought and died together,” he said, looking up with a faint smile when he looked up to see the present members of the Fellowship running down the steps, “We come to honor that allegiance.”

Aragorn greeted him unexpectedly with a warm hug, and they all took their places on the wall.

Just in time. The sounds of the marching Uruk-hai reached them soon after full dark, together with glimmers of light on the horizon, which soon resolved themselves into the torches carried by the massive army. In the dark there seemed to be no end to them, just a vast sea of dark-armored warriors flooding into the gorge.

It didn’t take long for the fighting to begin, and Théoden’s adjutant blew a short blast on a horn to signal the war-drakes.

Aragorn didn’t have Legolas’s or Eltariel’s Elven sight, so he didn’t see the beasts and their riders take flight from the mountains in the dark - but there was no missing the great gouts of white-hot flame that they exhaled over the Uruk-hai. There were shouts, roars of fury among the enemy ranks, followed closely by confusion, then utter chaos.

For the most part, the drakes stayed at the far end of the gorge, destroying siege weapons as they were brought in through gaps that opened up in the fireline. The rain wasn't coming down too heavily, but it was continuous, and they did need to put Rui and Nagnir on keeping that fire going. However, when the first ladders started going up, the drakes swung around in wide loops, doing quick passes once every few minutes to set the ladders on fire. Despite the wet, they burned fast, which helped keep the Uruk-hai off the walls.

Unfortunately, they were between passes when Saruman’s Orcs breached the Deeping Wall. They responded quickly to the disturbance, moving back to the wall, and once there, two of the largest drakes landed in the open area behind the wall. “Clear the breach!” Skoth roared, and everyone trying to defend the gap scattered, letting Gaerdis and Lachon open up and spit fire straight into the attackers’ faces. The Uruk-hai screamed and shouted and died in droves, their bodies falling into the Deeping stream, but it wasn't long before the sheer number of them began overwhelming both the stream and the drakes’ fire. The warriors of Helm’s Deep waded back out into the thick of it, though they were careful to keep away from whatever direction the drakes were facing.

Yet in time, they were all driven back, and the drakes ended up either back in the air or on the roof of the Hornburg, fighting with everything they had to keep the Uruk-hai from entering the caverns where the civilians were sheltering in the caves. Even so, it was only a matter of time before they were overrun. As the sun rose, Aragorn convinced Théoden to ride out with his men one last time to face the Uruk-hai head on. Together with the drakes they cut a swath through Saruman’s forces, even before Gandalf arrived with Éomer and another two thousand Rohirrim.

The Uruk-hai fled into a forest that had suddenly appeared on the doorstep of Helm’s Deep, and mere moments after the last of them had disappeared into the deep shadows under the canopy, the trees began to creak and groan and sway, branches waving this way and that.

“Reminds me of the Forest of Carnán,” said Zunn as the drakes came down to land on the churned up earth of the gorge, observing the Huorns, “She can get nasty too, if she thinks we’re takin’ too much from her trees.”

Théoden guided his horse through the ranks to come up next to Skoth, even as Boromir crowed about beating out Gimli _and_ Legolas with the number of foes he had slain. “I suppose that didn’t go _too_ terribly badly. When I saw the size of that force, I feared that there was no hope at all for us.”

Skoth nodded his head in agreement. “It _coulda_ been a hell of a lot worse,” he agreed, “and might _still_ be.” He turned back to look at the breach in the Deeping Wall. Men were already climbing over it, assessing the damage, working out how they would go about fixing it. “I don't know what Saruman cooked up that did _that_ , but I think we need to know in case Sauron’s got it too. If he _does_ … this is gonna get _real_ ugly, _real_ fast.”

Théoden nodded grimly. “Agreed. We will rest today, take stock, then ride for Isengard at dawn tomorrow. I will arrange for horses for you, so that you can ride with us.”

So of course when they arrived in Isengard, they found Merry and Pippin eating and drinking and smoking their way through Saruman’s private stores. The riders headed for the Tower of Orthanc with them in tow. The Ents all looked warily on the fire-drakes - _swimming_ , really - into the flooded Ring of Isengard, but the drakes ignored them for the most part, more interested in playing in the water and looking for fish to eat.

In the end, the only one to approach was Treebeard. “Young Master Gandalf,” he rumbled, “I’m, mmmm, glad you’ve come. Wood and water, stock and stone, I can master, but there is a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower.”

The party spoke with Saruman and tried for persuasion and mercy, but to no avail. Gríma decided that he had had enough of being kicked around and stabbed the wizard in the back with a concealed knife, but then he himself was pierced by an arrow from Legolas’s bow. They watched helplessly as Saruman fell from the top of the tower and was impaled on the spikes of one of his many wheels.

“We need to send word to all our allies in Middle-earth,” Gandalf said grimly, even as the wheel began to turn, the wizard’s body vanishing under the water, “The enemy moves against us; we need to know where he will strike.”

“We know a little,” said Aragorn, “We caught Talion while we were in Lothlórien and managed to set him free for a short while. He was able to tell us some, but I had him declare me to Sauron, and that I plan to claim the throne of Gondor and the Ring, so those plans may have changed. I thought it more important to give us - and now Frodo and Sam - cover to move where he will not expect.”

“That was both wisely and yet unwisely done,” said Gandalf, “for now it never will enter into Sauron’s mind that we might be seeking the Ring’s destruction - and yet it puts all of us, and especially _you_ , in more danger than ever. He will stop at nothing to have you killed before you can do so. Peregrin Took!” he called to the hobbit, who had just picked something up out of the water, a great dark stone, perfectly round, “I’ll take that, my lad. Quickly now!”

“A Palantír,” Zunn hummed, pulling his horse back a few steps as the hobbit brought it to the wizard, “I can’t say I recommend usin’ that - Sauron has at least one as well, and he twists anything you see inside.”

“Talion said that as well,” Boromir said, pulling Pippin up onto his horse, “My father has been using one, and now his spirit wavers on the edge of a knife.”

“Aye,” the Orc agreed, “There was one in Minas Morgul, but I don't know if we took it with us when we surrendered the city. It might still be there.

“But we’ll return to Mordor, get word to Idril. We have spies in Sauron’s ranks - we’ll find out what we can, and send word to you.”

* * *

The drakes and their riders left less than an hour later, flying high over the foothills of the Ered Nimrais and aiming straight for Mordor.

That night, Pippin was tempted by the Palantír, and although it worked in their favor, making Sauron think that the Ring was still with Aragorn, it forced Gandalf to spirit Pippin away with him when he went to Minas Tirith. Boromir wanted to go with them, to support his father however he could, and though Aragorn gave him leave to do so - and indeed encouraged him to see to his family - in the end he decided to remain behind, and follow his king.

Eltariel went in his place, to make it easier to contact the rebel forces in Mordor, which she did the very moment they passed through the gates, singing out a particular tune and stepping aside to speak with two guardsmen who responded correctly. She rejoined the wizard and the hobbit right as they were about to enter the palace, and fell into step with them but remained silent as they approached the throne below the Throne.

“Hail, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor,” said the Maia with an appropriate bow, “I come with tidings in this dark hour and with counsel.”

“Perhaps you come to explain _this_ ,” Denethor nearly growled, and lifted a cloven horn from his lap; all three of them recognized it as belonging to Boromir. “Perhaps you have come to tell me why my son is dead.”

“ _Dead?!_ ” Pippin burst out, unable to keep silent at that, “Boromir’s not _dead_! He was wounded fighting against a bunch of Orcs, yes, but he’s still very much alive! We saw him not but a day ago!”

Denethor’s cold eyes fell to the halfling. “His loyalty should be to _Gondor_ , first and foremost, not to Rohan - or _Elves_ or _meddlesome wizards_ -” There his eyes snapped up to Gandalf and Eltariel, burning hot, before dropping back to Pippin and freezing over again. “If it truly is as you say, then why has he not come _home_?”

The hobbit swallowed thickly. “I cannot claim to know his mind - but,” he said, sinking to one knee, “I can offer you my service, such as it is, in his stead.”

Denethor seemed impressed with his bravery in offering, despite himself, and leaned forward a little to see him better. “Then this is my first command to you. I can see that you know _something_ of my son’s failure to return home. Tell me what you know.”

Pippin hesitated, then said, “There is one of our Fellowship who has been named the Heir to the Throne of Gondor. From what I have seen, Boromir has accepted his claim, and chosen to follow him.”

The Man looked disdainful. “ _That_ one - yes, I know of him; the eyes of the White Tower are far from _blind_. Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” He lifted his gaze to Gandalf again. “So with this Ranger from the North you take not only my Stewardship, but also my firstborn son from me to match the second, Mithrandir. I tell you now I will not bow as easily as they have - not to him, and not to you. I am not satisfied with this scion you have brought forth to sit the Throne of Gondor, last of a ragged house long bereft of Lordship.”

“Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the King,” said the wizard.

“We shall see.” Denethor settled back onto the throne below the Throne and waved them away.

Gandalf waited until the palace doors had closed behind him to start grumbling about the city in general and Denethor in specific. “All has turned to vain ambition! A thousand years this city has stood, and now at the whim of an obstinate old Steward it will fall!”

It was then that Eltariel took more of a notice of the courtyard. “The White Tree of Gondor, great-grandaughter of Nimloth the Fair of Númenor, herself the daughter of the White Tree Celeborn of Tol Eressëa, in the Far West.”

“Yes indeed,” said the Maia.

“It looks dead,” Pippin said, “so why are they still guarding it?”

“Because they have hope,” Gandalf answered, walking along the parapet to look out over the Pelennor Fields, “They guard it because they have _hope_ \- a faint and fading hope that one day it will flower. That a king will come and this city will be as it once was, before it fell into decay.

“The old wisdom borne out of the West was forsaken. Kings made tombs more splendid than the houses of the living, and counted the old names of their descent dearer than the names of their sons. Childless lords sat in agéd halls, musing on heraldry or in high, cold towers, asking questions of the stars. And so the people of Gondor fell into ruin. The line of kings failed; the White Tree withered.” His tone turned bitter. “The rule of Gondor was given over to lesser men.”

Pippin noticed light and movement beyond the mountains across the river. “Mordor.”

“Yes, there it lies. This city has dwelt ever in the sight of its shadow.”

“That is _not_ natural weather, even for Mordor,” Eltariel said lowly, as the thick bank of clouds began rolling out across the far shore of the Anduin, reaching for them.

“Indeed not,” Gandalf agreed, “It is a device of Sauron’s making, a broil of fume he sends ahead of his host. The Orcs of Mordor have no love of daylight, so he covers the face of the sun to ease their passage along the road to war. When the Shadow of Mordor reaches this city, it will begin.”

Pippin let out a heavy breath, then turned back to them with forced cheer. “Well. Minas Tirith; very impressive. So where are we off to next?”

“Oh, it’s too late for that, Peregrin. There’s no leaving this city. Help must come to us.” Gandalf glanced to Eltariel.

“I sent out five messages to take different routes into Mordor, in case one or even a few of them are intercepted,” the Elf said, “If there is anyone to send, they will come - though it will probably be a small force of Men and perhaps more drakes, rather than Orcs.”

The wizard nodded in understanding. The Gondorians would not be likely to distinguish between Sauron’s followers and Talion’s; better to keep them back in Mordor to cause what trouble they could there for the Dark Lord. “Then that leaves only Rohan.”

* * *

Despite their disagreement, Denethor was still a Man of courtesy. He arranged for them to take rooms in a house reserved for visiting dignitaries, and provided Pippin with the livery of a Guard of the Citadel. Eltariel slept while Gandalf and the hobbit talked - until energy like cold black slime shivered over her skin. She was on her feet barely a moment later, both blades in hand-

-just in time to see a pillar of sickly green power blast skyward from the Morgul Vale, the clouds twisting into a dark spiral around it.

“We come to it at last,” Gandalf said solemnly, “The great battle of our time. The board is set - the pieces are moving.”

The very next day the wizard took them to one of the sheer cliffs that shielded the city from being attacked from behind. As the lightest (and smallest and therefore least easily seen), Pippin climbed up to the beacon tower above them, with Eltariel below to catch him in case he lost his balance.

But the hobbit was able to light the beacon without a problem, and climbed hurriedly down from the pyre. Yet even as that happened, Eltariel’s sharp eyes spotted something alarming. “Mithrandir,” she said when their feet were back on solid ground, “Osgiliath is being attacked - I saw three Nazgûl on the wing, and hordes of Orcs on this side of the river.”

They hurried to the stables where Shadowfax was resting. Eltariel borrowed a horse as well, and they galloped out through the city gates right as a force of Gondorians broke cover and fled the ruins on the river. There were three Nazgûl harrying the Men, but when Gandalf exchanged a glance with the Elf-Blade, she shook her head.

Not Talion, then. A small mercy.

When they drew near enough, the wizard lifted his staff and channeled his power through it, creating a beam of light that hit the Ringwraiths even under the cloudbank. Eltariel added her Lady’s Light to the repulsion, and seared the flesh of the Fell Beasts with a far more focused beam. The creatures shrieked and soon broke off the attack, letting the Elf and wizard fall in among the soldiers, though they kept a wary eye on their backs to ensure they didn't try to come from behind again.

They made it to Minas Tirith with no further sign of the Nazgûl, and once in the first courtyard, Faramir called out to the three members of the Fellowship. “Mithrandir!” he cried, “They broke through our defenses; they’ve taken the bridge and the west bank. Battalions of Orcs are crossing the river.”

“It is as the Lord Denethor predicted!” one of the soldiers called, “Long has he foreseen this doom!”

“Foreseen and done nothing!” Gandalf snapped, whirling Shadowfax around to face the soldier, revealing Pippin seated in front of him in the process.

Faramir’s eyes went wide, eyebrows climbing.

“Faramir?” The wizard followed his gaze, before realization struck. “This is not the first Halfling to have crossed your path.”

“So you _have_ seen Frodo and Sam,” said Eltariel.

“We parted ways not two days ago, in Ithilien,” the Man confirmed, “They're taking the Morgul Road.”

“And then Cirith Ungol, and Shelob’s tunnels,” the Elf finished, looking towards the Mountains of Shadow, “While far from an _ideal_ ally, I do not doubt that she will see them safely through to Mordor proper on the other side. It’s what lies beyond that we have to fear.”

Denethor did not agree with Faramir’s decision to help Frodo and Sam with their journey, seeing them safely to Osgiliath and releasing them to traverse the Morgul Vale. The Steward was furious, as a matter of fact, and father and son argued bitterly over it and other things, including what would have happened to Boromir if he had taken the Ring.

He very nearly had, but the Fellowship said nothing of it, and were not asked.

But Faramir’s arguments meant nothing in the face of Denethor’s wrath and disdain, and after Pippin was finally sworn in as a member of the guard, Denethor expressed the wish that Faramir had been lost in Boromir’s place (though lost to what, he did not say, and Gandalf had to hold Pippin back from bursting out again). That, more than anything, made Faramir finally give in, and he was dispatched to collect a force of men and attempt to retake the crossing, even though many thousands of Orcs were already on the near side of the river with thousands more joining them every hour.

_Your father loves you, Faramir. He will remember before the end._

* * *

Théoden and the Rohirrim arrived at Dunharrow at midday, and the king led the way up the switchbacks on the mountainside to the cliff overlooking the camp of all the Riders that had answered his call. He’d hoped for twelve thousand spears, but they had barely topped six. Still, he had hope that more would come.

Aragorn was less optimistic, and the rest of the Fellowship with him, but that may have been the effects of whatever dwelt in the Ered Nimrais at Dunharrow. “The horses are restless,” Legolas said, “and the men are quiet.”

“They all grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain,” Éomer answered the unspoken question as he carried his tack to his tent to make sure it was in perfect working order for the coming battle.

“And that road there?” Gimli asked, gesturing with his axe to a narrow cleft in the nearly sheer rock face at the very back of the camp, “Where does that lead?”

Legolas looked away from Éomer to see what the dwarf spoke of. “The road to the Dimholt, yes? And the Door Under the Mountain.”

“Aye,” said the horseman, “but none who go that way ever return. That mountain is evil in a way I can scarce comprehend.”

Aragorn heard their conversation and felt Boromir’s presence at his shoulder, but only distantly. His attention was focused on the pass, where he swore he saw the ghostly shape of a Man in ancient armor standing on the path, beckoning to them.

“Aragorn, Boromir!”

Both Men looked away from the path to Gimli, who said, “Let’s find some food. We’ve a long march and a longer fight ahead of us.”

The two Men agreed, but when they looked back at the pass, it was empty. As they all headed back into the camp proper, Aragorn murmured, “You saw it too.”

“...A-aye,” Boromir answered just as soft, “I did. And I don’t fancy seeing it again.”

He wasn't to get his wish, however, for late that night Aragorn shook him awake and told him to prepare to ride out on the road to the Dwimorberg, the evil mountain of which Éomer had spoken. He carried a new sword, Andúril, the Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil and brought to them by Elrond himself, and it was on the Elf-lord’s advice that they sought the aid of the Armies of the Dead that still dwelled in the mountain.

Boromir was decidedly unhappy, almost as unhappy as Gimli, but they both followed their companions into the narrow pass. It did not stay so narrow for long, but only three horses could have walked safely abreast without worrying about bringing down landslides from the sheer cliffs that rose around them.

“Ach!” Gimli grimaced when there was no visible disturbance above them, but a few rocks still came skittering down at their horses' feet, “What kind of an army would linger in such a place?”

“One that is cursed,” Boromir answered haltingly, a hand always on his sword even though it would do no good against those already dead, “It is known in Gondor that the Men of the Mountain swore an oath long ago to the King, to come to his aid when our need was dire. But of old their ancestors worshiped Sauron in the Dark Years of the First Age, and even in the Second they still had some love for him, so when the time came and we called for them, they chose to flee rather than fight. And so Isildur cursed them, never to rest until they had fulfilled their pledge.”

“Who shall call them from the great twilight?” Legolas said - nearly sang, his voice echoing off the rock of the pass, “The forgotten people. The heir of him to whom the oath they swore. From the north shall he come; need shall drive him. He shall pass the door to the Paths of the Dead.”

At last they reached the Dimholt, the Secret Wood that housed the Dark Door, itself barely more than rough-cut stone slabs, two driven into the ground and one laid overtop to frame a black hole into the mountain. There was an inscription on the crosspiece, and Legolas translated for them. “‘The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the Dead keep it. The way is shut.’”

A chill wind rushed out of the darkened depths and spooked the horses. They tore themselves free and raced back down the path in the direction they had come. Aragorn hissed through his teeth, then turned back to the door. “I do not fear death,” he growled, and entered, vanishing swiftly into the blackness. Legolas strode after him with determination.

Both Boromir and Gimli slowly turned their heads to look at each other, identical expressions of mingled terror and resignation on their faces. Then they faced the door together, took fortifying breaths, and followed the other two into the darkness of the mountain.

* * *

Eltariel was perched on the outer wall, watching the approach of the only horse to come back out of the melee at Osgiliath, when one of the gate guards finally spotted it. “Open the gate! Quick!”

It was dragging its rider behind it, but she had already seen who it was. If Faramir wasn't already dead, then he was very nearly there, and she sorely doubted there was anyone in this city with the knowledge and skill to save him - even herself or Gandalf.

Such a _waste_.

Still, to protect the Gondorians, she stayed on the wall and continued sharpening her knives to a point keen enough that the lightest drag over her skin was enough to draw blood. Then the Orcs advanced near enough to start launching catapults at the city - but their first salvo consisted of the heads they had cut from the Men from Faramir’s doomed charge on Osgiliath.

Eltariel stood to her feet, scowling. She had disagreed with many of Talion’s command decisions over the years, especially as his soul had darkened, but _this_ he would never have allowed even at his worst. He had grown _cold_ … but not _cruel_. _This_ was the _Witch-king’s_ work, and meant he would soon take the field. Though Gandalf had said he had not yet been tested against the Wraith, she felt he was strong enough to at least hold him at bay, if not drive him off.

It was the other Eight she was… _concerned_ about.

 _Not the strongest or swiftest or greatest of the Nine - in many ways not even close - but he is still more dangerous than those that_ are.

There was some kind of commotion above, but soon Gandalf and Shadowfax arrived on the wall with a fresh wave of soldiers, all of the Men terribly frightened but holding steady. The Elf looked up to the Maia. “Everything all right?”

The wizard raised his eyebrows, briefly tilted his head. “Denethor and I had a… _disagreement_ about the ordering of the troops. He… _collapsed_ , and is now resting while I take over command of the defense.”

 _Hm. Yes. ‘Collapsed.’_ “Then what _are_ your orders, Mithrandir?”

“...We fight. As hard as we can, and for as long as we can. Even if we cannot stop them all, we may yet protect the rest of Gondor and the West - and we can make them pay _dearly_ for every life and inch of ground.”

His words seemed to give some kind of heart to the Men, and they did stand and fight. Trebuchet after trebuchet flung volley after volley of debris among Sauron’s troops - rubble from their own city, buildings broken by enemy catapults - but it wasn't more than a few hours before shouts of fresh alarm rose among the Men again.

There were winged shapes coming down below the clouds, but these were accompanied not by screams but gouts of flame released among Sauron’s Orcs in great sweeping lines. Among those troops who knew what - _who_ \- had come, cheers rose, rapidly joined even by those who did not understand; the sight of their foes burning in droves gave heart to those who had begun to falter.

But then, one thing on top of another - the screams started. The _shrieks_.

“Daerwen!” the Elf-Blade nearly screamed when she saw the Fell Beasts coming down through the clouds, a few of the drakes breaking off their assault on the ground troops to pursue them as best they could. If he was here, she wouldn't be far. She never was. “ _Daerwen!_ ”

The massive drake roared in response and plunged out of the sky even as Gandalf shouted for the soldiers of Gondor to hold their fire. A few arrows were still loosed anyway, but they skipped off Daerwen’s scales without leaving so much as a scratch. She landed heavily behind the outer wall in the only space large enough to accommodate her, still close enough for her to snake her head between two buildings and hiss at them.

Eltariel was already jumping down from the wall and sprinting for her. “We need to get Talion _off_ this battlefield!” the Elf said to her, “This has become a city of cemeteries and sepulchers; more spirits walk these streets than living Men. And with Osgiliath and its Kin-Strife so _very_ near, to say nothing of those of Mordor who are loyal even in death… I shudder to think of what kinds of _armies_ are just _waiting_ for his summons. We need to stop him, force him back before he can call them forth to fight.”

Daerwen hissed again, but lowered herself to the flagstones, letting the Elf climb up and strap herself into the saddle. Then they were racing for the sky, aiming for one Ringwraith in particular.

His Fell Beast tumbled through the air when Daerwen hit it, struggling to disentangle itself from her claws and flapping frantically to keep itself aloft. Talion himself let out a _horrible_ snarl, sounding more like a drake than a Man, and threw out his hand, hit them with a blast of necromantic power.

Yet, at the absolute _last_ possible second, both Daerwen and Eltariel felt it. “He pulled the punch,” the Elf said as the drake righted them in the air, “lightened the blow so it was only enough to break us apart, rather than stop our hearts. Even _now_ , he is not lost - not yet.

“Though he has not lived within her borders for many years, Gondor is still the nation of his birth, and he still loves her and defends her. Shall we see to it that he doesn't do her any irreversible harm?”

Daerwen snarled her agreement.

“Then let’s go!”

The drake pulled her wings in and dove to gain speed, then swung back up and came at the Ringwraith from below.

* * *

When he finally saw the tunnels at the top of the Stair of Cirith Ungol, Frodo was more glad than ever that he had found the strength to push aside both Sméagol’s misgivings and his own. He and Sam both clutched each other’s hands and swallowed thickly at the sight of the thick web spread over the rocks, the tiny spiders skittering away into the dark. If he had been alone, he likely wouldn't have had the courage to enter.

Sam squeezed his hands, then shifted to wrap an arm around his shoulders. When Frodo gave a hesitant nod, the other hobbit took a step forward, then another, gently pulling Frodo along with him. “Shelob?” Sam called into the tunnels as they walked, “Miss Shelob? Idril sent us!”

_Did she now._

The silken female voice came from everywhere at once, and made both hobbits freeze. It was Sam’s turn to swallow, but then he resumed their slow, careful pace into the tunnels. “Yes,” he answered, “We’re here to put an end to Sauron, and she said you might be willing to help us on our way.”

They turned a corner - and stopped again.

Shelob was in the tunnel in front of them in all her terrifying, spidery glory, her bulk pressed low and long legs stretched out on her web to monitor every twitch in the thread for hundreds of meters. Her eight eyes locked on them at once, seeming to glow with their own kind of fell light, before falling to Frodo’s chest where the Ring was hidden in his shirt. _Yes indeed,_ she said, pedipalps smoothing eagerly over her fangs, _You have it. Truth be told, I expected you many weeks ago, and thought you had succumbed to its influence before reaching me - or that another had done so, and taken it from you._

“Not yet,” Frodo managed, “not yet. But it grows heavier with every step I take.”

 _Of course it does._ _It knows you carry it to its Doom and seeks to stop you, to return to its Master._ She spoke the word with clear distaste, and a few drops of venom dribbled from her fangs. _Come along little hobbits,_ she continued, pulling her many legs in, distinctly stretching, and then turning down a tunnel that looked no different than any other to their eyes, _Even the shortest route through the Ephel Dúath here is still a full day’s journey to Mordor beyond, and for your sakes - and those of your friends and allies - you must hurry._

Frodo and Sam looked at each other, then followed the spider.

* * *

The Elf was not sure how long they actually dueled in the skies above Minas Tirith and the Pelennor Fields. The only thing that had actually marked the passage of time was that during the undefinable period of late afternoon or early evening, two fire-drakes had been shot down by the enemy, one by a catapult shot that caught it full in the chest, the other by an unlucky arrow that pierced its eye and entered its brain.

And both times it happened, Talion seemed to sense it coming, turned his head to follow the drake’s final descent, and let out the most _horrible_ scream when they hit the ground. The second time it happened, she felt the briefest touch of Gandalf’s mind, a bare moment of questioning confusion between one fight and another -

 _He is_ still in there _! He can sense his drakes, he knows them, still loves them as his own blood! He knows they are fighting and_ dying _around him - he is_ mourning _them!_

-but it was only a moment, and then they were fighting again.

But Daerwen’s strength was spent before the sun set. Fortunately, Talion’s Fell Beast was also at its limit, and Eltariel felt safe enough bringing the drake in to land on Minas Tirith’s outer wall. The Gondorian soldiers hurriedly cleared her a spot near the gates, and there she came in, thudded onto the stone, and turned around to release a massive stream of flame on the Orcs and beasts rolling an enormous, wolf-shaped battering ram on the gates.

They screamed and died, or screamed and fled, and Daerwen let out a roar of mingled triumph and challenge - a sound Talion echoed high overhead, where the air grew thin.

Eltariel jumped down from her back and found Gandalf in the milieu. “She will hold them off for a little while,” said the Elf, “We need to get all the women, the children, and the wounded to the highest level, if they're not there already.”

“Agreed,” the wizard said, and started calling orders to do exactly that.

More drakes started coming in as well, landing in the lower levels of the city to rest while they could, and their presence encouraged those Gondorians who had not already fled to seek the upper levels of the city. Eltariel organized the effort to find them all food and places to sleep - and also to carefully section off an area for the Orc riders to do the same without fear of being killed in their sleep. In the end, though Grond was on their very doorstep, they put drakes on the wall to set fire to any foes that made a break for the doors and opened the gates of Minas Tirith, to haul in the corpses of three of the great beasts that had pulled the massive battering ram from Mordor, as well as a few trolls and one enormous graug.

Once the bodies were through, the gates were shut again, locked and reinforced with everything they could find, and the drakes set upon the corpses, their hunger after the long fight driving them to hiss and snap even at their own nestmates.

By midnight only cracked and splintered bones remained, with a nest of fire drakes tangled up in the shadow of the wall, the scaled mound rising and falling slowly as they breathed together.

There was a soft sound somewhere overhead.

“Away with you!” Eltariel called up in a whisper, flicking a dagger of light in Talion’s direction, “We all need rest, and we will not get it with you hovering over our heads, cooing at your beloved drakes!”

The Ringwraith hissed at her, but spurred his exhausted Fell Beast on and vanished into the night.

* * *

Pippin called Gandalf away very late that night - or very early the next morning - just as the drakes were rousing from slumber. Or rather, they were _being roused_ , because the fires they had set had burned out in the night, and trolls and graugs had been driven forward to start winching Grond back to assault the gates. Their riders streamed out of damaged houses nearby, throwing on their gear as they ran for their mounts, and in minutes, at least three dozen of them were taking flight, resuming the battle from yesterday against both the ground troops and the Ringwraiths swooping down out of the clouds.

But they weren’t alone; there were more drakes coming in from Mordor, and from the wall Eltariel could see that there was fighting in Osgiliath again. Idril’s forces had come, and were cutting off the escape of Sauron’s.

The Elf found Daerwen in the milieu in the city, and swung up into her saddle. Once they were in the air, she guided the drake to focus her attacks on the beasts wielding Grond.

But someone on the other side had brought up some ballistae in the night, built on platforms that let them spin around for easier targeting, and they started aiming for the drake as she fought Sauron’s forces. “Oh, you had _better not_ shoot _this_ drake down,” Eltariel murmured to herself, shifting and rolling her weight with Daerwen’s evasive maneuvers, throwing bolts of light at the ballistae, “I don’t want to think about Talion’s reaction if his baby dies.”

Speak of the devil. There was a shriek from above, and the drake immediately broke off her attack to swing up and meet her true rider as his Fell Beast plummeted towards them, claws outstretched. They, too, resumed their battle from the previous day - although at least for Talion and Daerwen, it was more like play-fighting between parent and child -

-until a horn sounded across the Pelennor Fields.

The Rohirrim had arrived.

* * *

A drake swooped down out of the early morning dimness and landed not far away from the front line of horses, walk-hopping towards the king and his adjutants and standard-bearer. “Rui!” Théoden called, “What news?!”

“As many of us are here as can be spared!” she answered, bringing Nagnir around to stand next to them, looking out over the fields, “Our ground troops are working on Osgiliath, so if any of Sauron’s forces break in that direction, let them go; we’ll clean them up. Skoth and Dirhael are bringing the wings around; they will come at the enemy from the opposite side when you begin your charge.

“But we must be quick. There are Mûmakil coming up from the south; they'll be on us in under an hour.” Noting the Rohirrim’s confusion, Rui said, “War-Oliphants, great beasts, twenty meters tall if they're an inch, with a body to match and long ivory tusks as big around as a grown man if not bigger, and they have near two dozen of them. The drakes can keep them distracted - they're _terrified_ of fire - but their hide is too thick for us to penetrate.”

“So _we_ shall need to find a way to bring them down.”

“Aye, or at least get them corralled so we can get at their vulnerable areas. The ears, eyes, stomachs - all the usual spots,” she said, “Their riders are on their heads or near enough; if you can take them out, they won’t have anyone directing them, which will make them easier to round up. Good hunting.”

“You as well.”

Nagnir took flight again, aiming to join up with the drakes on the far side of the battlefield. They were starting to break off from their various attacks, coming around and forming a line in the air that mirrored the Rohirrim on the ground - all save one, a massive blood-red beast who continued harrying one of the Nazgûl.

“Éomer, take your éored down the left flank!” the king ordered, wheeling Snowmane around.

“Flank ready!”

“Gamling, follow the king’s banner down the center. Grimbold, take your company right after you pass the wall. None of you should slow your pace until we meet the drakes in the center! Forth, and fear no darkness!” Then the king turned to his men. “Arise, Arise, Riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered! A sword-day, a red day, ‘ere the sun rises! Ride now! _Ride now!_ Ride! Ride for ruin, and the world’s ending! _Death!_ ”

He was trying to give them as much heart as he could while still reminding them of the reality of what they were about to face, and yet it also gave heart to him to hear so many voices raised to echo his own, throwing their full strength behind the battle cry even knowing that many of them would not live to see the sunset. And then, when he cried, “Forth Eorlingas!” and the heralds sounded the horns, not one of them broke and fled from this last and greatest of battles. He heard the thunder of their horses’ hooves behind him, and saw the drakes far ahead starting their own dive-

And then they were in the thick of it. Gamling and his company kept close even as they continued their charge, plowing Orcs under with the drakes and their fire growing ever closer. Even when riders fell behind him to one weapon or another, more moved forward to take their places - until the horses would continue no further, their fear of the fire before them too great. Then Théoden broke off his own charge and wheeled Snowmane around so he could start hacking at the Orcs. There seemed to be no end to them, snarling and lashing out with crude weapons of their own, but even when his arm began to tire, he kept swinging, kept an eye on the riders around him.

Yet - was it his imagination? Were these numberless hordes starting to thin? Would they truly be in time to set Sauron’s forces to flight before the Haradrim arrived on these _Mûmakil_?

Even as he thought that, another horn sounded, alien to his ears, and the beasts appeared out of the dust at the edge of the fields. It was one thing to hear Rui’s description of them - it was another thing entirely to see them with his own eyes. Still, he did not allow himself to falter, and took courage from the thunder of drake wings in his ears. “Reform the line!” he shouted to his men, already pulling on Snowmane’s reins, “Reform the line!”

The riders all swung their horses into a rough line once more, and he heard similar shouts above - even picked out Skoth’s voice roaring to the drakes to come about with the Rohirrim. “Spear throwers, aim for their faces and the riders on their heads! Sound the charge!”

Gamling’s horn sounded, and Théoden spurred his horse into a gallop, leading the way. The drakes pulled ahead, and spat balls of fire in the Oliphants’ faces, making them scream and stumble, rear and retreat. Three of them fled outright, harried toward the Anduin by a few drakes that set their war-towers alight. Théoden switched his reins to the same hand that held his sword and snatched up an Orcish spear sticking up out of the ground as Snowmane galloped past. It was not in his better hand, but when he drew near enough and threw it, it flew true enough, catching one of the beasts in the corner of its eye. It roared in pain and shook its head, inadvertently throwing its rider off its back, but then it roared again and stumbled off to one side.

Now the king could see that the riders steered the Oliphants by way of long chains attached to painful spikes in the beasts’ ears. With this one, its rider now dangled from one of those chains, and it was leaning in that same direction, stumbling forward at an angle until it collided with another of its kind. They both went down.

That apparently served as inspiration enough, for Éomer did the same to another, though his aim was _far_ better; he actually took out the steersman directly, and (whether accidentally or intentionally) timed it right to create a pileup of not two, but _four_ of the Oliphants.

Zunn and Filegien streaked overhead, setting the crumpled war-towers alight as they passed, the Orc shouting, “Now _that’s_ how it’s done! What a _shot!_ ”

Théoden could not suppress a grin in answer; though he grieved for Théodred still, his own son barely in his tomb, he did not doubt that Éomer would make a good king after him, both in peace and in war - assuming he survived this battle.

Which, judging by the horrific shrieks coming from behind them, both of them might not. He turned-

-just in time to see the Witch-king coming for him, the Ringwraith’s winged beast swooping toward him with claws outstretched. Yet in that same moment, Skoth and Gaerdis, and Angreth and Thînel, came _plummeting_ down out of the sky to tangle with the creature.

Chaos descended. For a moment, Théoden knew nothing save that he had been thrown free of the melee with such force that the wind had been driven from his lungs. He gasped in shallow breaths, until at last he recovered enough to actually understand what was happening around him.

Snowmane was in flight, finally fleeing from the battle as his instincts commanded. Gaerdis and Thînel were both on the ground, wounded but still fighting, snapping and flaming at the Orcs harrying them, Skoth and Angreth at their sides. The Witch-king’s own mount was thoroughly dead; judging from the enormous bloody bite marks on its neck, the two drakes had each seized a section and pulled away from each other, ripping its head from its body.

The Ringwraith himself was advancing on Théoden, a flail of unbelievable size in one hand and a wicked sword in the other. For a moment the king was afraid, _terrified_ beyond reason - but then he thought, ‘No. If this is to be my end, I would make it one worthy of remembrance.’

He groped for his sword, found the handle, dragged it over, lifted it up, but whether broken or simply turned, when he tried to stand his legs wouldn't hold him, sending bolts of pain lancing through him. He stumbled and fell to his knees, but kept his sword up, wheezing in shallow breaths, and looked into the unseen face of the advancing Witch-king with determination.

Then someone stepped between them. One of the Rohirrim, smaller and slighter than normally rode among them, but still armed and armored and ready.

When the Rider spoke - if Théoden thought he had been afraid before, it was nothing compared to that moment.

“ _I will kill you if you touch him!_ ” Éowyn nearly screamed at the Witch-king, refusing to bow before the Ringwraith’s fearful presence. Théoden tried to call out to her, to tell her to run, to get away, but couldn't manage more than a wheezing rasp.

 **“Do not come between a Nazgûl and his prey,”** the Wraith growled at her, and lashed out with his flail. Éowyn ducked below the arc of the massive spiked head - once, twice! - then threw herself out of the way when the Wraith brought it down in an overhead swing that made the ground shake when it hit. Yet while she was fighting to regain her balance from her dodge, the Witch-king was able to get his flail up again and lashed out-

Éowyn’s shield took the blow and shattered, and Théoden knew the Wraith had to have wounded her arm as well with so hard a blow, such that her sword flew half a dozen or more meters away as well. She gasped and fell back, and clutched her wounded arm to her chest.

Sauron’s servant left his flail where the head had fallen, tossing away the handle and chain with an almost careless gesture, already sure of his victory. He strode over to Éowyn and, with his now-empty hand, seized her by the throat and lifted her off her feet. **“You fool,”** he growled, **“No man can kill me! Die now.”**

Yet as if summoned by the Wraith’s words, a small figure also dressed as a Rider came charging in and stabbed a shortsword into one of the Witch-king’s legs. The blade turned to smoke, and the Rider - no, _Meriadoc_ \- fell back, crying out in agony even as the Wraith let out a pained shriek of his own and fell to his knees.

In the process, Éowyn was released and regained her feet, and Théoden finally managed to gasp her name. She looked to him, and caught Herugrim when he threw it to her, the blade sure in her hand. With the sword in one hand, she pulled her helmet off with the other, letting her long golden tresses fall free, revealing the first face the king had seen when he was freed from Saruman’s evil magic, now smeared with dirt and blood from combat but with eyes still bright and fierce.

 _“I am no man!”_ she cried, and then stabbed Herugrim into the space where the Witch-king’s face would have been, had he been a mortal man. The Wraith let out an ungodly shriek, worse than any before, and Éowyn stumbled back with Herugrim clutched close to her chest even as the Witch-king started to crumple in on himself like a thin sheet of metal - until nothing remained but a small heap of black fabric, which turned to dust before their eyes and blew away on the wind.

Éowyn dropped Herugrim and staggered over to Théoden, falling into arms already open to receive her, tears streaming down her face to match those on her uncle’s. They held each other tight - and Merry, when he managed to shuffle over to check on them, and Éomer as well when he finally came running with a cry of mingled shock and joy at seeing them all alive. Théoden knew that when time passed, and the horror was less immediate, he would be angry with Éowyn and Merry both for disobeying his orders, abandoning the duties he had laid on them - but in that moment, all he felt was relief.

It was over.

* * *

The Houses of Healing were overflowing with the wounded. Eltariel knew this because she had helped carry many of the wounded through its doors, and directed the drakes to do long, slow flights over the battlefield, searching for any survivors and bringing them to the gates of Minas Tirith. The drakes’ sight was better than that of an eagle; they could spot prey from _miles_ away. They would be able to see if someone was still breathing from a few dozen meters.

Maglor was with Thînel and Gaerdis, tending to their wounds; Thînel had gotten off light with just a few bite wounds, but Gaerdis was going to be grounded for quite a while. The Elf couldn't actually tell which had done the deed, but either the Witch-king’s sword or one of his Fell Beast’s claws had sliced a hole as long as a Man’s arm in one of the drake’s wing membranes, leaving her unable to fly for the foreseeable future while it healed. By some miracle, the implement - whatever it was - had missed the major veins and arteries in the area, and she hadn't bled out before their medics reached her. Still, she was decidedly _not_ pleased about her imminent grounding and, much like her mother Daerwen, was preparing to make that everyone else’s problem.

Eltariel handed off another wounded soldier and looked east. Talion had quit the field mere moments after the Witch-king’s demise, fiery chains dragging him back to Mordor, and Daerwen had only stayed long enough to let the Elf-Blade down off her back before following. She did not doubt for a moment that Sauron knew Talion was now his best chance at pulling a victory from the jaws of defeat, and that the Maia had recalled him to Mordor for the same reason that Eltariel had tried to keep him from Gondor. The other Wraiths were fearsome, each with their own specialties but still a reasonable master of all the others’ powers - but with the death of the Witch-king, Talion was now the only full-fledged necromancer of the lot.

The others would need to be warned. Though they could be defeated, wraiths such as the ones he called would _not_ be easy to fight - nor would it be easy to cut down the corpses of allies and friends when he made them stand back up again.

She arrived inside the palace just as Gandalf said, “Frodo has passed beyond my sight. The darkness is deepening.”

“If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it,” said Boromir.

“It’s only a matter of time,” the wizard sighed, “He has suffered a defeat, yes, but behind the walls of Mordor our enemy is regrouping.”

“Let him stay there,” Gimli said, puffing on his pipe, “Let him rot! Why should we care?”

“Because ten thousand Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom,” Gandalf returned sharply.

“More than that,” Eltariel added, walking over to join them, “He still has Talion, and all that that entails. He is not lost, not yet, but the important word is _yet_. We have told Sauron where the Ring is, or where he will _think_ it is - here, in the White City, with the Heir of Isildur. He will have seen what he thinks is its might, bent at last to the will of another.” She waived her hand in the direction of the Pelennor Fields. “And though this was our victory, we still have been greatly weakened. If he wishes to seize the Ring, _now_ is the time to strike.”

“He does not have the numbers for that!” Éomer protested, “He emptied Mordor against us, but still we have shattered the host he sent!”

“If we give him time to break the last of Talion’s will, he won’t need an army of living flesh - not when Talion can give him one of the dead.”

Horror started dawning on their faces at varying speeds as Eltariel forged ahead. “The War of the Last Alliance was fought in Mordor - hundreds of thousands of Men, hundreds of thousands of Elves, and a great host of Dwarves fought and died against three times that number of Orcs and others. That host was shattered as well, but perhaps one in fifty from the Alliance lived to see Sauron unhoused. As someone who has lived in Mordor for decades, I can tell you that many of those who fell on either side are still there; on nights when the veil is thin, those wraiths walk the land and continue that fighting from so long ago.

“And now this. A costly battle fought on Minas Tirith’s very doorstep - and though Talion is neither the strongest nor the greatest of the Nine, he will become the most terrible of them all. It is a dark and evil magic he has mastered, but he is a necromancer like no other - and who among us can look into the faces of our friends and allies and cut them down unfeeling? If Frodo and Sam have just left Cirith Ungol, even on a straight shot across Gorgoroth, they are still at least three days from Orodruin, and we may not have that kind of time.

“He won’t even have to call the wraiths up for very long - just long enough to destroy the world of Men.” She looked to Gimli. “We cannot afford to _let him rot_. Something _must_ be done.”

“Something like marching on the Black Gate?” Aragorn asked, getting to his feet.

Gimli choked on his inhale, and coughed out puffs of smoke.

“What, exactly, would that accomplish?” Théoden asked from where he was sitting in a fine chair that had been brought up for him, Éomer at his side. He hadn't actually broken any bones in the fighting, but both his ankles had been badly twisted. It would be some time before he was able to walk again.

“It is as Eltariel has said, Sauron thinks _I_ have the Ring, not Frodo. The Ring always seeks to return to its master, and why would he send an army of wraiths to reclaim it if, in _his_ mind, it is about to be delivered to his hand by the Heir of him who took it?” A small smile pulled at Aragorn’s lips as everyone straightened in understanding. “It would buy time for us all. Like as not, Sauron would be satisfied with what control he has over Talion, at least for the moment, and so leave him be. No dead army would come to our door, and we would give some measure of protection to Frodo and Sam as they make the crossing, by drawing Sauron’s Eye and what remains of his army to the Black Gate. We would keep the Dark Tower blind to all else that moves.”

“A diversion,” Legolas said, a smile of his own blooming on his face.

“Certainty of death. Small chance of success,” said Gimli, “What are we waiting for?”

Boromir was nearly beaming at the Ranger. “Gondor will stand with you in this.”

“As will Rohan,” said Théoden, nodding to Éomer, who nodded back.

“And Mordor,” came from the door. It was Skoth, looking a little roughed up but mostly unharmed.

“How’s Gaerdis?” Eltariel asked as he walked up to join them.

“Oh, she’s _pissed_ ,” he said with a laugh, “Swinsere had to knock her out so we can move her, but it looks like she’ll make a full recovery as long as we can keep her on the ground.” He turned to the others. “Just got word from Osgiliath by way of Rui. Norsko and his boys have claimed and cleared the city, and the crossing is secure. They’ll do the handoff when you pass through and come with us to the Gate.

“Got a message from Mordor, too. Idril heard about the Mûmakil, wants to know if you’d be all right with drakes coming through on rotation to eat them. Free food for us, and saves you most of the clean up.”

“I don’t see why not.”

* * *

They took a day to rest, during which Aragorn used the Palantír of Orthanc to declare himself directly to Sauron at last. The army of the west set out the following day, and reached Osgiliath before noon. The Orc called Norsko - once the Overlord of Cirith Ungol, while Talion’s forces still held it - came out to meet them. The caragor he was riding snarled at Aragorn and his horse, but the Man didn't flinch, only raised an eyebrow, which earned him an approving grin from the former Overlord. “Osgiliath awaits your inspection, Your Majesty,” he said, and bowed as best he could while astride his mount.

“I thank you for your aid,” the Ranger said, starting his horse forward into the city, Orcs and Men clearing a path, “Was the fighting hard?”

“Eh.” Norsko shrugged. “Depends on whatcha mean by _hard_. _Challengin’_ ‘s the word I’d pick; we haven't done much fightin’ on or near rivers before. Not many of those in Mordor, ‘cept in Núrn.”

Sauron’s forces had built an ugly bridge over the Anduin, which Talion’s forces had done their best to shore up, make strong when they took the city; Sauron hadn't much cared how many of his Orcs were lost in the crossing, as long as there were enough left to fight. Norsko led the way across, showing that it was now reasonably safe, and they linked up with the greater part of his fighters on the other side.

The Orcs and Men and beasts of Mordor weren’t the only ones waiting for them; there were also soldiers of Gondor from Minas Ithil before her fall, a great many Rangers of Ithilien, and even some scattered Haradrim and Easterlings - and a handful of Elves. They were not the bright and ethereal Eldar that most were familiar with; these were still beautiful and graceful but more grounded, more earthly, less awe-inspiring. “We are known to those who call themselves _Eldar_ as _Avari_ , the Unwilling,” said one by the name of Tamnaeth who came to greet them, “since our ancestors refused the call of the Valar to go into the Far West. Still, we share the same foe, and so we have come forth to fight.”

“Then you are indeed welcome here, and we are glad of whatever aid you are willing to give,” Aragorn replied.

The Rohirrim and those of Gondor who had not known of the Free Peoples of Mordor were wary, but they followed the lead of the Fellowship and those who _had_ known. The Uruks and Ologs were still a rough people - but Mordor was a rough land, and the Dark Lord’s long influence did not vanish overnight.

* * *

They were less than a day out from the Morannon when Rui and Nagnir came back from their scouting run.

“Daerwen is at the Black Gate.”

_And Talion will not be far._

“Any sign of wraiths? An army of the dead?” Eltariel asked.

Rui shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, “not even the _Ring_ wraiths. If they are there, they are hidden; we cannot see them. Idril and the others have been pressing hard; we now hold most of Mordor again, and have Sauron penned up in northwestern Gorgoroth. What remains of his host is mustering in Udûn for this last stand, not more than twenty thousand right now, but there may be a few more by the time we arrive.”

Daerwen was indeed at the Morannon when they arrived, perched atop one of the Towers of the Teeth. She was staring out into Mordor, but turned her head to look at them as they settled themselves in for the night, to await the confrontation at dawn. She sniffed the air, then turned her whole body and leaped from the top of the tower, spreading her wings and gliding slowly down to join the other drakes where they were piling themselves together to sleep.

This time there was no cooing sigh overhead, and Eltariel found that she was more alarmed by the absence of it than the presence. Talion’s drakes had become to him as horses were to the Rohirrim: nearly a part of his very being, with much of his life revolving around their care and use. Since the moment he began breeding them, the Man had been defined by having a drake nearby at all times, be it a full grown one nuzzling him or pawing his pockets for treats, a baby hanging from his already-tattered cloak or perched on his shoulder, or an egg tucked in the crook of his arm. That they were here and he was not…

The Elf did not sleep that night, and neither did Daerwen. As before, in the woods of Lórien, Eltariel saw the light gleaming off her eyes in the dark. She watched the drake for many long minutes, but Daerwen only stared off into Mordor as if she could see through the great wall of the Black Gate, waiting.

Finally, the Elf’s gaze fell to her hand. A handful of people knew what lay under her glove, but only she knew what Shelob had had to say about it, when she went to tell the spider about Talion’s Taking and to ask what she had seen.

_That may have come from the hand of the Ringmaker, but he did not make it for himself - or for you, or for me. Though for now it has accepted his will and stayed on your hand, like its cousin the One, it too seeks to return to its Master. You should return it to him when the time comes - because you won’t like what it will do to you if you don’t._

* * *

In the morning, Aragorn and the rest of the Fellowship, together with Éomer, rode up to the Black Gate and demanded that Sauron come forth to answer for his deeds. The Maia did not answer, instead sending out his Mouth to speak on his behalf - and to claim that Frodo and Sam had been slain.

Aragorn refused to believe, and cut the Mouth’s head off to punctuate the statement. Then, when the Gate began to swing wide to release Sauron’s hordes, they turned and galloped back to their allies arrayed on the field of battle. “Hold your ground!” Aragorn called to them, “Hold your ground. Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, of Mordor, my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when all our courage fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the entire world comes crashing down! But _it is not this day._ This day we _fight_! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you _stand_ , Free Peoples of Middle-earth!”

And then the battle was joined. It seemed a small eternity before the remaining Nazgûl arrived as well, forcing some of the drakes to halt their attacks on Sauron’s more distant forces. Daerwen went barrelling into Talion’s Fell Beast, fangs and claws flashing, now actively trying to kill it even as the beast fought to escape.

The Great Eagles came to fight as well, lighter and more agile than the drakes, and soon overwhelmed the Ringwraiths - and many of Sauron’s fighters below, diving down and snatching up the enemy to throw them down again elsewhere.

And, whether by accident or design, during the aerial dogfighting Talion slipped from his Fell Beast’s saddle.

He did not have far to fall; in an instant, Daerwen spotted him, pulled her wings in, and dove to get underneath him. He caught a grip on her harness, held fast, and she came in to land among Sauron’s forces, just in front of the army of the west, clearing a space for them with a massive swing of her spiked tail. Then she breathed a stream of - quite literally - _white-hot_ flame into the enemy ranks to make them shy further back.

Eltariel raced to her side to see the Ringwraith releasing his grasp, sliding to the ground, and steadying himself there. “Talion!”

He hissed at her but did not attack - did not even reach for Urfael or Acharn, still belted over his back where they had been for decades.

But then his head snapped around, staring towards Mount Doom - right before he _shrieked_ in pain and fell to his knees, clawing at his Ring. She managed to catch the hand that wore it and _slammed_ the Light of Galadriel down on top of it, throwing as much power into the artifact as she could. The light shone through the fabric of her glove like a small sun.

Talion wheezed, then stumbled and fell back against Daerwen’s side, dragging her with him. **“Eltariel?”** he gasped out.

“It’s almost over, Talion,” she said, before stripping off her glove as best she could without taking her hand off his own.

The script on the New Ring rippled and glowed, seemed to revolve on the surface of the metal, and the phantom fingers that it made for her looked more solid, more real than ever before.

Talion didn’t notice. He was looking toward Orodruin again. Though her efforts with the Light severed him from Sauron’s control for these few moments, he could still hear the Maia crying out in deadly fear, sending the other Ringwraiths to abandon all else in favor of rushing for the volcano.

He could also hear the One Ring. It was poised on the edge of the abyss, demanding that _someone_ \- _Gollum, Gollum is there_ \- take it _away_ \- there was a fierce struggle, a tug of war right on the brink -

-and then the plunge. He felt the wind rushing past his face as if he was falling with it, felt the rising heat, the Ring returning to the place of its birth-

-and then Sauron _screamed_ , his voice echoing over the barren plains. The Great Eye atop Barad-dûr _writhed_ in agony, and the tower itself started to give way, splintering with sounds like shattering glass.

It was done, then. Talion closed his eyes and felt the power of his own Ring fade as the band crumpled to dust, his wounds from so long ago opening up again and sending black blood spilling down his chest...

And then Eltariel slipped the New Ring onto his finger, phantom fingers vanishing from her hand, her own wounds starting to bleed again. Its energy flooded through him, the deep cold a sharp contrast to the boiling heat of Isildur’s Ring, together with a sense of _:home-at-last-Master-we-are-back:_ , and his throat and hand sealed again.

Yet as that happened, a strange voice, one he’d never heard before, spoke directly into his mind.

_Would you deny death a third time, Talion Wind-Rider?_

His first thought was of his wife and son. It had been so long since he had even just _seen their faces_ \- since that bitterly cold night atop the Gate, rain pouring out of the sky and drenching them all, before it was mixed with the lifeblood of those who had mattered most to him.

_“We’ll be together soon, my love! Forever!”_

He loved them dearly, and missed them just as dearly. Always had, and always would.

But then he thought of his people, the Orcs and Men alike who called him their Lord, who chose to follow him against the All-Seeing Eye. The Men could now choose their own leaders, and live free… but the Orcs had never known freedom, always serving one Lord or another. They had been born without choice, and all he had done up until that point was given them another option of who to serve. Most of them wouldn’t know what to do with freedom _or_ peace, and so most likely they would end up doing what they had always done. They would fracture, strong leaders would gather followers, and they would fight. Men, Elves, Dwarves, each other - it didn't matter. They knew little else.

He couldn't do that to them. Several times now he had been close enough to true death to taste the pure air of the Other World, to see its light with his waking eyes, but still he couldn't leave _his people_ behind. Not until this last task was done.

Even if Ioreth and Dirhael never, _ever_ forgave him, he wanted to help these _Elves_ back up out of the dark.

**_Yes. Yes, I deny death._ **

_There will be a price._

**_Then I will pay it._ **

_So be it. Though you were born a Man, Talion Wind-Rider, you shall be counted among the Eldar, and you shall be bound to the circles of the world until their ending. Death may come for you, but it will never hold you for long. Yet it is not for your own sake that you have made this choice, and so when this task you have appointed to yourself is done, you shall pass the Ban of the Valar, and take the Straight Road into the Far West with all that remains of the Elder Days of Middle-earth._

_You are Sundered from the Fate of Men._

Talion bowed his head in acknowledgement, and felt somehow that in that moment, he became anchored more firmly to the world around him. It was like some thin veil before him had been drawn back - but also that a wall had come down behind. As a Man and even as a Wraith, the Gravewalker, always he had felt the touch of death, as soft as the draft from a moth’s wings, yet more unbreakable than _mithril_.

Now it was gone. Forever beyond his reach.

_You are Sundered from the Fate of Men._

But then his attention was returned to the moment. Mount Doom _exploded_ from within, and there were cries of horror from all around. “ _Frodo! Sam!_ ” someone screamed.

 _The Ringbearer_ , Talion realized. _It cannot end like this, a bitter defeat in this hour of victory._ And almost before he knew what he was doing, he was boosting himself into Daerwen’s saddle.

Eltariel was binding the severed stumps of her fingers where Sauron had cut the New Ring from her hand so many years ago. Yet she paused long enough to look up, to meet his gaze and shout over the sounds of distress and weeping, “Halflings! They will be small, seem as children to your eyes! Two of them, one with dark hair and the other a rusty brown!”

He nodded and spurred Daerwen into the air, pressing himself flat to her neck to limit the drag she had to fight. The drake sped as fast as she could for Orodruin, wove sharply to avoid a few flaming boulders thrown from the eruption, and then swung around in a wide arc to find the Sammath Naur and the Cracks of Doom. All Talion could see was fire and lava, but Daerwen must have spotted them because she let out a roar.

 **“If you can make a safe landing, take us in!”** he called up to her, and she shrieked in acknowledgement, then swooped up the face of the mountain before turning to come back down.

Even though the halflings were aware enough to scramble up to the very edge of the rock spur to give her as much room as possible to come down, it was still incredibly tight, and probably the most dangerous landing she’d ever done. She had to hunch over to fit, with her tail lifted above the lava and wing-hands nearly resting on her feet, but she did it.

Talion threw out a hand. **“Come on! _Hurry!_ ”**

“Mr. Frodo’s wounded!” said one of the halflings, shoving the other in front of him, boosting him up into the saddle, “He needs medicine!”

 **“And he will get it once we’re away from here!”** Talion helped the dark-haired hobbit - _Frodo, this one is Frodo_ \- wrap his bloody hands in the wrist straps at the front of the saddle, then yanked Sam up as well. There was just enough room in the front but no more wrist straps to hang on to, so Talion sat Sam between him and Frodo but kept an arm wrapped around his waist to keep him from falling off. Then he whistled sharply. **“Daerwen! Get us out of here!”**

She shrieked again, then lunged. Talion heard the rock spur crack and give way under her, but her wings were already spread, bearing them aloft.

* * *

_“He’s got them!”_

The Fellowship had been embracing, holding one another and praying, but now they all looked up. Despite her wounded hand, Eltariel had managed to climb up some of the wreckage of one of the Towers of the Teeth to get a better view into Mordor. _“Talion’s got Frodo and Sam!”_ she shouted down to them, _“They’re alive!”_

Cheers erupted throughout the army of the west, and redoubled when Daerwen came in to land. Talion handed the two hobbits down to their companions, who immediately wrapped them both in a joyous embrace.

Everyone was focused on the Fellowship, so no one noticed Talion stiffen, then turned his head to stare off into Mordor, face blank. Finally, he said quietly, **“You’re an idiot. Come here. No, just - _come. Here_. We _are_ going to talk, but not here, not now. Both of us are exhausted, and this is neither the time nor the place.”**

Celebrimbor - still there, still himself, but barely more than a breath of _fëa_ after such a long and intimate struggle, and weary down to bones he no longer had - slipped free from where he’d been hiding in the ruins of Barad-dûr and drifted close enough that the Ringwraith was able to catch hold of him. Talion pulled him out of the Unseen World, and tucked him into what little untainted flesh and spirit he had left to rest and recuperate.

(It was very likely that he would never, _ever_ say the words aloud - or at least not for a very, _very_ long time - but it felt good to have him back.)

Then the Ringwraith jumped down from Daerwen’s back and started wrestling with the robes Sauron had forced him into: layers and layers and _layers_ of fabric to shield him from the sun, and not one layer went on exactly the same way. He was swearing under his breath by the time he reached the sixth, a light, gauzy material that would have been better off as a lace curtain. **“No. Screw this. Where’s my dagger? Where’s Acharn?”**

“Hold still, Talion,” Eltariel said, grabbing a section of the robes and starting to saw away at it with one of her shortswords, trying to avoid damaging his armor underneath.

**“I can hear you laughing at me; quit it.”**

“Not your best clothing choice, my friend.”

**“ _Listen_ , you. Is this a _net_? Did Sauron put a fucking _fishing net_ on me?!”**

That time Eltariel really did laugh, and managed to wrestle the snarling Ringwraith out of the net without damaging it. He found Acharn where he’d set it down with Urfael, then cut his way through the rest of the fabric, throwing it all down and kicking it away, muttering to himself. **“Burn that,”** he said to Daerwen, and she spat a tiny ball of flame into the heap, sending it up in an instant. Then he buckled his blades back on with a sigh.

Norsko and Skoth pushed their way through the crowd to his side. “Welcome back, Boss,” said the former, “Orders?”

 **“Let’s get everyone back to the camp first,”** he answered, **“and go from there.”**

* * *

When the army of the west arrived in Minas Morgul to part ways with those who would be returning to Mordor, Idril was there waiting. Messenger drakes had gone out in the hours after the fall of the Dark Tower, so by now all of Mordor knew that Sauron had been defeated, and that Talion had come back out of the dark.

The instant his adopted daughter saw him, Idril no longer cared about the presence of Gondor’s soon-to-be king and his companions. She rushed him at top speed and tackled him off his feet in a fierce hug, almost cracking his skull on the paving stones in the process. But Talion said nothing of it, only held her close, and Baranor too when he hobbled forward on his cane. “You have been missed, _ada_ ,” Idril whispered, to her husband’s murmured agreement.

**“I’ve missed you all too.”**

There was a drawn-out angry beep down by their feet, and all three of them burst out laughing. “Determined not to be left out, is that it, Gorion?” Idril asked, stepping back and leaning down to pick up Daerwen’s youngest.

Gorion - “Son of Dread” in Sindarin - had his father Ithildin’s soft silver-grey color and promised to have his relatively small size as well (Ithildin was a scout and messenger, like his brother Nagnir), but the little drake also had the full force of his mother’s attitude. He let out another angry beep, and Talion laughed again and took him from Idril, settling the drakeling on his hip as if Gorion was a human child. **“Not to worry, you little brat,”** he said, scratching the drakeling’s neck and throat, **“We could never forget about you, especially not after you took your _sweet time_ hatching. When did he finally break the shell?”**

“Late summer, early fall,” Baranor answered as the baby started sniffing Talion everywhere his tiny head and neck could reach, “For the longest time we thought his egg hadn’t actually been fertilized, but Daerwen wouldn't let us throw it out.”

**“Much like Daerwen herself, then. If I remember right, it took her almost two years to finally hatch. Brat, stop eating my hair.”**

Daerwen snaked her head around to sniff her son, who beeped cheerfully at her. She let out a low, almost pleased rumble, and nuzzled him carefully, which Gorion used as an opportunity to climb out of Talion’s arms and onto her head.

His mother looked vaguely exasperated but made no attempt to shake him off, and Talion grinned and scratched her throat, earning another pleased hum. **“Good girl.”**

It was then that Aragorn approached, and raised an eyebrow at the sight of the baby drake curling up and going to sleep atop his much larger parent. But he set it aside in favor of turning to the other three. “I cannot say for sure when the coronation will actually be held, for we all have much work to do in the meantime, but I wanted to make sure you knew in advance that you are invited to attend.”

 **“Thank you, Your Majesty,”** Talion answered, **“Circumstances permitting, we’ll be there.”**

* * *

The coronation was a sight to behold, the White City rising again out of the ashes of her long decline and the War of the Ring. The Return of the King gave heart to Gondor’s people - even those who had decided to remain in Mordor. Talion was honestly surprised at the number of them; he had thought that now that Sauron was defeated, they would want to return home and be at peace, but they had just laughed at him. “Sauron is gone, yes, but now the real battle starts. Making and maintaining peace, building a proper society in Mordor, establishing relations with other realms…” said Angreth, “We’re not going to leave you to do all that by yourself, Grandfather. We stood with you then, and we will stand with you now.”

Talion wanted to protest, to say that this was a task he was prepared to take the full weight of on himself, but in the end he only felt a mix of exasperation and gratitude that he would not be alone in trying to help the Orcs and Ologs and other denizens of Mordor set themselves free from Sauron and Morgoth’s chains.

Gorion snorted in his ear as he watched Aragorn embrace his Elven bride. **“Hush, you,”** Talion murmured to the drakeling perched on his shoulder, petting his snout, and by some miracle the little brat kept quiet for what remained of the ceremony, though the Ringwraith felt his tail swishing against his back.

It wasn't until almost the end of the celebration afterwards that he had a chance to speak with Aragorn and Arwen. **“I wanted to ask if either of you had any thoughts on timing for formal negotiations between Gondor and Mordor,”** Talion said quietly, holding his arm out steady to let Gorion walk down it and sniff the Elf woman.

“Only ‘the sooner, the better’,” Aragorn replied, equally soft, “I’ve already seen at least three petitions to resettle Ithilien, and I know I saw that a few of your people have homesteads there when we were passing through.”

“Indeed,” Arwen said just as low, carefully letting Gorion climb into her arms and lay his head over her shoulder, purring, “Now that Osgiliath has been formally returned to Gondor, there may be those who will not even wait for the king’s permission to cross over, and while _we_ know that your people are not a threat - not now, at least - that news has not yet spread to the rest of the land. A terrible war has just ended; we do not need to start another one.”

 **“Agreed. We also need to discuss the handoff for Minas Morgul and the western end of the Morgul Vale,”** Talion said.

“I would not ask you to leave the path into Mordor undefended, not now when there may very well be those who would seek revenge on you,” Aragorn said.

 **“We are _not_ undefended, Your Majesty,”** the Ringwraith answered, **“The Tower of Cirith Ungol lies fully manned on the other side of the pass, and there are more than a few Eyries - drake rider outposts - in the Ephel Dúath that look out over the pass. If anyone tries to march on us, we will know.**

**“But Minas Morgul also helps guard the Harad Road on approach to Gondor. Right now, with peace so new and so fragile, I would not ask you to leave your defense from the south in our hands - and your defense from Mordor, since there is no longer a path through the Black Gate. There are too many who would question the wisdom of such a decision, and I would not leave room for doubt to grow at the very beginning of your reign.”**

Aragorn sighed, and nodded. “Very well,” he said, raising an amused eyebrow when Gorion distinctly snuggled deeper into Arwen’s arms, purring louder, “we can discuss that, too.”

* * *

There was strife, of course. There were those on both sides who didn't want peace, who didn't want to negotiate, who only wished to slaughter the other side to the last. But even among the Orcs and the Ologs there were many who were weary of war, and in the end peace won out. Construction and reconstruction began.

And then it was time.

* * *

**“You're going West.”**

“Yes.” Eltariel did one last check of the rooms she had claimed in the Núrn fortress so many years ago, then did up the ties on her pack and pulled it on. “This is now the Age of Men, and it is time for the Elder Days to pass away into legend.”

**“You’ve always been so dramatic.”**

“Hello, Pot; my name is Kettle. You're black.”

Talion made a disparaging noise, which pulled a grin from the Elf. Then the Ringwraith sighed. **“Are you willing to take Celebrimbor with you?”**

Her head snapped up to stare at him. “What?”

 **“It is as you say; this is the Age of Men, and he is not a Man,”** Talion explained, **“He is not recovering, only… lingering, as if on the verge of death. Maybe in the Far West he will find healing.”**

“ _What?_ ”

He blinked at her. **“What?”**

“Celebrimbor - you _found_ him? There was no sign, so we thought him destroyed with the Dark Tower, or already passed into the Halls of Mandos in the West!”

Talion blinked again. **“Did I not say that I had-?”**

_“No you did not!”_

**“Oh. Well, yes, I found him. I called to him after Barad-dûr fell, and he came. But the wounds Sauron dealt him haven't healed, and he hasn't woken up. No better - but no worse, either. He just… sleeps.”** Talion pressed the hand that wore the New Ring to his sternum, then pulled it back away, and the Elf’s _fëa_ came with it in the form of a small misty sphere of light. He was as he had been two years ago when the Dark Tower came down, pale and weary, stretched too thin for too long defending himself against the Dark Lord. **“I will not hold him here like this until he fades whole and entire. Even _he_ doesn't deserve that. Will you take him?”**

“...Aye. I will take him.” Eltariel stepped forward and let the Ringwraith put the other Elf’s _fëa_ into her body, and she winced at how wounded he felt. “Ow. _Ow!_ I almost think those years were easier for us than for him.”

 **“Perhaps they were, in some ways,”** Talion said quietly, **“Perhaps they were.”**

* * *

He saw her off at the Grey Havens, her and all the others who were setting sail from Middle-earth. Maglor was staying for now, but a fair number of the Avari Elves were finally journeying into the Far West. A veritable fleet had already set sail and passed through the stone prominences that protected the port, but Eltariel (and Celebrimbor with her) boarded the last ship, together with her Lady Galadriel - and Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer. The hobbit bade a tearful farewell to his friends and especially his loyal companion, Samwise Gamgee.

He also said goodbye to the Ringwraith; they had exchanged a few letters after the end of the war, though it took some time for the letters in question to actually reach them. Truth be told, Talion had been surprised when the first of them was placed in his hands; he had spoken to the hobbit all of three times, once on the way to Minas Morgul from the Black Gate, and twice at Aragorn’s coronation. Yet they had soon bonded over being mortal Ringbearers, and also the shared burden of Sauron’s slowly fading darkness. Talion was sad to see him go, but knew that he would see the hobbit - and _all_ those who were sailing - again someday, even if _they_ didn’t know that yet.

Frodo said goodbye to Daerwen as well, and she dipped her head, sniffed his face, and then nuzzled him gently with a low rumbling purr. He smiled and petted her scales before boarding the ship. The sailors cast off from the docks, the sails billowing out as they caught the wind… and soon the ship was gone, following the light of the setting sun over the horizon.

Daerwen sniffed the air, sneezed, then distinctly huffed.

**“What is it, girl? Did you get a whiff of the Far West?”**

She sneezed again, then wiped her nose on his cloak.

 **“Hey! _Rude!_ ” **Talion heard the hobbits snickering as they departed, and he was glad they could still smile after this loss of a dear friend, even if it was at his expense. **“Come on, you. Let’s head home. We’ve still got a _lot_ of work to do.”**

* * *

Years passed. Maglor sailed with Celeborn after the passing of King Elessar and Queen Arwen, and they took with them the last of all the Elves of Middle-earth: King Thranduil of Mirkwood and his woodland subjects, Elladan and Elrohir and the last of the Elves of Rivendell, those few who remained in Lindon and the Grey Havens… and Legolas and Gimli.

Of all those, it was the last two that Talion raised an eyebrow at, and when he asked, Legolas said, “Gimli has been my good friend for these long years, and I would give him true paradise in exchange for all the years of joy he has brought me.” Then the Elf looked around, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. “And also because he once said that he would call nothing fair unless it was the Lady Galadriel’s gift to him in Lórien, and I am going to do everything in my power until the end of time to make him call something else fair so I can pester him relentlessly about it.”

Talion had to briefly press his face into the crook of his arm to smother his laughter. **“Ah, what is friendship if not that? I wish you all the luck in the world. May the winds of the world be with you, and see you safely West.”**

By then the changes had begun to make themselves known in Mordor. The Orcs and Ologs had begun to settle a little, organize themselves in different ways; there still was a heavy emphasis on fighting ability, but they had learned that the best fighters were not always the best leaders. Now many of their captains were smart as well as strong, less likely to resort to violence _right_ at the outset, willing to cooperate with each other when the situation demanded it, and the rest of them were following that lead.

There were some that had even abandoned the combative lifestyle entirely in favor of other trades. The Marauder Tribes were making a mint in actual trading, traveling to distant lands and bringing back goods to sell on, and the Warmonger Tribes were turning into bodyguards for them and others, protecting them from attack, with the occasional Dark Tribe to help with strategic thinking. The Machine Tribes had found a way to use Orodruin to heat their forges, instead of burning a forest’s worth of trees every year, and they were developing all kinds of interesting devices. The Feral Tribes had worshiped the beasts of Mordor for years, but now they had begun actually taming some of them; caragor hide made good leather armor, and with a good handler, graugs could also be used for mining, tunneling deep into the mountains in search of ore.

Talion was relieved. They still had a _long_ way to go, but they were taking their first steps on the road to healing.

The whole land of Mordor was healing right along with them. Lithlad’s deserts were slowly shrinking, Núrn’s forests spreading and growing richer even as Carnán faded into a depthless slumber. And there were _flowers_ blooming in Gorgoroth, amidst the ruins of the Dark Tower, the soft white Niphredil Ioreth had loved so much in life.

(When he first heard about the flowers, Talion refused to believe it until he saw them with his own eyes. When he did fly out to see them, he spent almost an hour walking through the swaying stems, careful not to step on a single one.)

(He didn’t know if it was a sign that Ioreth had forgiven him for choosing to be banished from death for a final time, but he accepted the comfort anyway.)

Time continued to pass, and eventually the Orcs and Ologs started fading as well - though not disappearing like the Elves. Instead they became just another more subset of the race of Men, almost as varied as their trueborn kin, intermarried with other Men… and disappeared as a separate people. Even the memory of Sauron vanished from their bloodlines and caragors and graugs and other mythical creatures vanished from the land, and Talion knew that, at long last, it was time.

Even though he still held the title Lord of Mordor, he had removed himself from actual governance of Mordor more than a thousand years prior, instead helping the land to establish its own system, choose its own leaders in its own fashion, make laws other than the ones he laid down based on what he remembered from Gondor, now and still the Reunited Kingdom. Once he had been sure that it was as steady and stable as he could make it, he had begun to withdraw from the public eye as well, fading from a real, live person to a historical figure no one realized was still among them to just as much of a myth as the Elves, as Beleriand and Númenor, as Sauron and the War of the Ring.

When he reached the Grey Havens, now in _utter_ ruins, he woke the New Ring from its slumber and sent out one last call, the pulse racing through the world in a wave of energy felt only by the last beings of the Elder Days. Over the next few years, his remaining drakes played in the ruins of the once great and beautiful Elven city, and he gathered up the Elven _fëar_ that came drifting in from wherever they had been hiding - along with three weary and unhoused Maia who named themselves Radagast, Alatar, and Pallando. He recognized the names as the three remaining Istari and listened to their tales.

Radagast had spent much of his time tending to the flora and fauna of Arda, though he had done little to actually oppose Sauron beyond that and lending aid to Gandalf during the quest to reclaim Erebor. Alatar and Pallando, meanwhile, had gone east and south to stir up trouble among Sauron’s allies - which would certainly explain why there had been more people than Talion expected who were willing to ally with him before Sauron’s fall, or otherwise aid them through various means. Ultimately, however, they had been betrayed by Saruman and left for dead, or near enough. They had chosen not to return west after that, fearing the worst of Gandalf as well (for it had been known that he often consulted the wisdom of Saruman), and instead established a number of secret societies to help them keep evil in check.

At last, the days between the arrival of the gathering _fëa_ began to lengthen, until at last more than a year passed, and Talion knew. He sent out one more call, but when there was no further response, he whistled for his drakes.

Their numbers had thinned greatly over the millennia; where once there had been near five thousand of them at their height, spread out across Mordor, now there were only three _hundred_ \- these few he had managed to save from the ravages of time with the power of the New Ring.

All that remained of the Elder Days of Middle-earth.

Gilith landed in front of him with a soft purr. “You ready to see if we actually _can_ fly to Aman, squirt?” Talion asked the drake, accepting his nuzzle.

Gilith - “Starlight” - snorted and huffed like he was insulted that Talion doubted they would make it, much like his ancestor so long ago; Daerwen was one of his forebears by way of her daughter Gaerdis.

“Oh, please forgive me for doubting you, your lordship,” said the former Ringwraith with a roll of his eyes, “Let’s be off, then.” He swung up into the saddle, made sure all the Elven _fëar_ were secure, and then whistled sharply, the sound echoing through the ruins.

One by one the other drakes took off in a cloud of rainbow scales and thundering wings, and Talion waited until he was sure that every last one of them was in the air before spurring Gilith to follow, to take point and lead everyone out over the ocean towards the setting sun.

Not one of them _saw_ it coming, but they sure as hell _felt_ it. One second they were flying over the sea, glittering gold below, and the next the sun slipped below the horizon in a green flash and they passed through some invisible veil. In an instant, they found that they were no longer flying over the sea; instead they were soaring through a bright cloud of dust and stars. The drakes squawked in alarm, then delight, and Talion felt his own weariness start to seep away even as his scaled family started playing, chasing each other, wheeling in formation, snatching at the clouds and stars and each other. “Brats,” he said affectionately, “Don’t fall behind.”

There were noises of acknowledgement all around. They kept flying and did not grow tired; if anything they grew stronger and more well-rested the longer they went.

The color of the clouds in front of them started to change, going from everything under the sun to low pre-dawn grey. “We’re approaching Aman!” Talion called to the drakes - and also to the Elven _fëar_ and the unhoused Maia, “Stay close, keep up away from the water until we approach the continent, and don’t do anything foolish!”

More squeaks and squawks and roars, and the drakes drew near about him and Gilith, though they all carefully left enough of a buffer for their wings to flap without hitting one another.

The colors of the dust clouds continued to change, going from grey to rose to pink to orange to gold - there was another flash of green light -

-and they were over the ocean again, but the air smelled sweeter and purer than any Talion had ever known, even in Lothlórien before the departure of the Elves. The sounds of the waves below sounded strangely clear, and he could see an incredible distance to the barest line of land on the horizon. He whistled to the drakes again and signaled them up as high as they could go - which in Aman seemed to be _very_ high indeed. The air never thinned, only grew bitterly cold, and Talion pressed himself close to Gilith’s back and drew his cloak close in an attempt to keep warm.

The Enchanted Isles flashed by below as fist-sized splotches of land in the water below, then the much larger Tol Eressëa beyond. It was even more green and beautiful than the legends said, but Talion had no time to admire it. They were getting ready to pass into Valinor, and he had no wish to be distracted if they ended up getting attacked.

The Pelóri Mountains were even more forbidding than the legends said, black and smooth like obsidian on their outward faces, and so high that even at their altitude the flock of drakes could only just pass through the lowest valleys, which were above the cloudline and utterly bare of any life. There wasn’t even any snow, just cold rock and scree. Still, Talion sent them through in the north, _carefully_ , as he had no desire to try to get through the Calacirya unseen, even so high up.

But they made it through the outermost peaks without getting so much as a scratch, and from there the mountains angled slowly down, rock changing to snowy banks, then forested slopes and grassy valleys with long, bubbling rivers. These were truly wild places in Valinor, where even the most adventurous Elves had never trod; whether or not the Valar had been there was another story. But Talion judged that these would be suitable lands for them to settle, though like as not they would have to travel further north to be completely free of fear; he would not tempt the Valar by taking them south near Taniquetil, or further to the Forests of Oromë where the Hunter who gave them their name was known to dwell.

But before they could actually settle somewhere and start making a home for themselves, they had another task first.

The flight kept heading west but angled slightly south when the great city of Valmar passed behind them on their left, together with the Ring of Doom and the dark husks of the Telperion and Laurelin.

It took some hours for them to cross enough of the Plain of Valinor - a gently rolling grassland, simultaneously green and gold, broken only occasionally by copses of golden Mallorn trees - for the Halls of Mandos to come into view.

Talion swallowed at the sight of it, and felt a few of the Elves shift restlessly. “Settle,” he murmured to them, “All will be well.”

The Halls of Mandos might not have reached the heights of Taniquetil, but they more than made up for it in sheer _size_. They seemed to be more than four times the size of Minas Tirith - and that was just _on the surface_. The caverns below must have been even more extensive, and the former Ringwraith had to say he wasn’t exactly _eager_ to see what its deeper residents were like. _Interested, intrigued,_ but far from _eager_.

The Vala himself was waiting at the entrance, as if he had known they were coming. He probably had, either as the Doomsman of the Valar (who may or may not have had some knowledge of the future) or because of his wife, Vairë, who wove the stories of Arda into great tapestries that covered the interior of the Halls. Talion wouldn't have been surprised if he had a few mentions over the years.

All the drakes landed at a wary distance from the Vala, peering at him, stretching their necks out to the fullest to sniff in his direction, before making noises of confusion and discontent low in their throats. Talion murmured to them, soothed them as best he could, then swung down from Gilith’s back and approached.

_“Welcome to Valinor, Talion Wind-Rider.”_

The former Ringwraith recognized his voice at once - had never forgotten it for even a moment. “Thank you, Lord Mandos,” he said, “I am honored to be permitted a place here, together with my drakes. Though I must confess I am surprised you yourself pronounced my Doom at the Black Gate.”

Something like a smile pulled at the Vala’s pale lips. _“Like Eärendil before you, you defied the dark Powers of the world, passed through deep shadow and came back into the light, and not only for your own sake. None other would have done as you did - seen through Morgoth’s corruption and Sauron’s machines to the potential that lay beneath - and so Eru judged you worthy of passing the Ban into paradise. I merely spoke the words the One gave to me.”_

Talion bowed his head in acknowledgement, then held out his hands. “These _fëar_ \- and these three Maia - are the last of those to leave Middle-earth.”

Mandos - also known as Námo - nodded and waved a hand, summoning several other Maia from the depths of the Halls. They came forward, each one more unusual than the last, and gently extracted the _fëar_ before carrying them back into the halls. As they went, Talion got glimpses of the Elves they had once been, nearly as varied in appearance as the Maia who escorted them.

The three Istari were taken somewhere else - _“They will be returned to the Valar who sent them to Middle-earth, who will see to them,”_ said Námo, watching them go before returning his bottomless gaze to the former Ringwraith, _“There are two here who have been recalled from their fates for a moment, to see_ you _.”_

Before the Vala even stepped aside to reveal them, Talion knew. He knew, and felt tears fill his eyes.

“Talion,” Ioreth whispered, and rushed forward to throw her arms around him. He held her back just as tight and buried his face against the side of her neck - in the fabric of her scarf, the same one he had worn knotted around Acharn’s sheath until it wore away to nothing.

She was exactly as he remembered her so many years ago, right down to the scent of her skin, the beginnings of crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes, the first threads of silver starting to weave through her long brown hair. Dirhael was just as he remembered, as well, his mother’s thick dark hair cropped short and contrasting against his father’s clear blue eyes. Talion wrapped an arm around his son, too, holding him close, and felt no shame in letting his tears fall.

The former Ranger wasn’t sure how long he stood there embracing his family, only that when they finally stepped back, they were surrounded by curious drakes climbing over each other to scent them. Much to Talion’s surprise, Ioreth giggled and let them. “They are… not what I expected, when I was told you had been breeding them,” she said, carefully running her fingers over Uial’s scales - they were a bit like shark skin, smooth with the grain and rough against it. “I was expecting them to be more of Mordor than this.”

“It’s been a _long_ time since those days,” Talion said quietly.

“We know,” Dirhael replied, his voice just as soft, “We saw the tapestries. There’s an entire hall dedicated to you.”

 _That_ made the Ranger’s mouth fall open in shock, eyes wide. An _entire hall?_ Just for _him_?

“Come now, love,” Ioreth said gently, smiling up at him and cupping his cheek with a soft hand, “Did you really think Vairë would leave you out of her histories?”

“I kind of hoped she would,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough to press their foreheads together, “Some of the things I did… are not the kinds of things that should be remembered.”

“You stood against the dark where others would have been consumed by it,” his wife replied, “You _fought_ , love. And not just against Sauron but also for the Orcs’ right to exist where others would have let them be destroyed without batting an eye. You made hard choices, and not always the right ones, but that does not outweigh all the good you did in the end. And I am _so_ proud of you.”

“Both of us are,” Dirhael added with a smile that slowly faded, “I only wish that it could have come about without costing us all so much in the process.”

“To live is to suffer,” Talion said with a weary shrug, “It is what we do about that suffering, about the circumstances we find ourselves in that decides who we are.”

“Indeed,” Ioreth agreed, then pulled his head down to press a kiss to his forehead, “We will see one another again someday, when the time comes and all are recalled for the Last Battle, and _this_ time we will stand and fight together with you, and see the world made anew. Until then, my love.”

“Until then, father.”

Talion nodded, hopeful with the promise of a far-off distant reunion but still saddened by this current departure. “Until then,” he said, and watched them step back and disappear. He took a deep breath, wiped his tears, and looked up again to find the Vala watching him.

Mandos nodded in approval, then said, _“He is waiting for you in Formenos - has been for a long time, even for one of the Eldar.”_

Talion went still for a moment, then nodded and swung up onto Gilith’s saddle. The others followed them into the air, and they flew back across the Plain of Valinor. They turned north again when Valmar and the Ring of Doom appeared on the horizon, but this time they swung around completely to follow the line of the Pelóri until Palantír called out the short string of sounds that meant he’d spotted something.

The name “Formenos” - “Northern Fortress” - was apt indeed. Valmar and Tirion upon Túna both were built as in a land of peace, cities that sprawled ever outward with no walls to speak of, nor guard towers nor guardsmen. Formenos had been built as if for war, a true fortress on a high hill, with thick walls of white stone and a single tall tower overlooking everything that reminded him so much of Minas Ithil that Talion had to take a moment to breathe.

When they all landed in the large courtyard before the tower, Maglor came out to greet him, grinning in incredulous joy. “You _bastard_ ,” he said, and pulled the Man in for a quick hug. Then he jerked his head, and Talion followed him inside, the Elf expertly weaving through the halls to a solarium and opening the doors for him before leaving them to talk alone.

Mandos said that he’d been waiting for a long time. He looked like he hadn't slept at all throughout that time, but he still rose from his chair with the ease and grace of the Eldar, a kind of hopeful disbelief on his face. “Talion…?”

“You're still an idiot,” the Man replied, and strode across the room to pull Celebrimbor into a tight embrace. And if the Elf’s hands fisted in his clothes to hold him back just as tight, if he felt crystal tears fall on his neck, he said nothing about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Drake Name Translations  
> Daerwen - Dreadful Woman  
> Ammalië - Yellow Bird (Female)  
> Gaerdis - Bride of the Sea  
> Thînel - Evening Star  
> Filegien - Small Bird (Female)  
> Galadwen - Bright/Shining Woman  
> Gwelu - Air  
> Lachon - Flame (Male)  
> Nagnir - Biter (Male)  
> Ithildin - Starmoon  
> Gorion - Son of Dread  
> Gilith - Starlight  
> Uial - Twilight  
> Palantír - Far-Sighted (Quenya; all others Sindarin)


End file.
